An Uncommon Bond Page 4

  I thought to climb down to her, but waited and watched. As I watched, I noticed vivid changes to my inner landscape. A tornado was spinning in my diaphragm, a swirl of excitement and apprehension that shook me to the core. I was compelled to run toward and away from her in equal measure. My heart fluttered, my breath shallowed. Could I take all this in?

  I heard a little voice inside whispering sweet somethings in my inner ear: Go to her, go to her. I ignored it, preferring the safety of voyeurism to the perils of real contact. But then I realized that it had been many minutes since I had last seen her. And there were no more scratching sounds. Flash of panic—oh no, not again! Hurriedly, I got up and scrambled down the rocks to where she had been standing. Sadly, she was gone, no doubt scampering down the steep trail off to the left.

  Or did I make the whole thing up?

  I looked at the cliff face. Everywhere, there was chalked graffiti scrawled on the rocks. Have I found a mad one? I looked closer:

  Truth eyes REAL-EYES

  REALIZE,

  ReMeMbRanCe

  MUM

  accept the invitation.

  Right in the middle of the largest stone facing me were the words:

  When two hearts beat in the same direction,

  all gaps narrow.

  She had clearly been working the language, because she had crossed out other possible endings: “the bridge appears,” “the distance narrows,” and something I couldn’t quite read. I picked up a small piece of chalk from the ground, rubbed out her second sentence, and added my own ending. Finally, we were conversing again:

  When two hearts beat in the same direction,

  the meeting point is God

  Then I scurried down the trail to find her. I moved quickly, falling twice on my ass in the steep sections. Reaching the bottom of the hill, I picked up the pace, jumping tree roots and fallen trees with reckless, heartfelt abandon. The sun was bright in the forest, patchy rays of light that made it difficult to gauge exactly where I was stepping. But I was on some kind of a mission. Mission Impossible?

  The Enchanted Forest

  I stopped to catch my breath. In one way, I felt exhilarated. It was as though my body had sprouted wings of hope. At the same time, I berated myself. Here I was, chasing after love like an abandoned child. My childhood all over again. Does it have to be this difficult?

  I got up to run the trail, but decided against it. I heard the gurgling sounds of the river, and cut through the forest toward it. I wasn’t sure why, I just had to reach that river. I began to run again, this time at a more measured clip. A deer crossed just ahead of me, causing me to stumble. Walking, I soon located a clear trail to the river.

  I saw her standing quietly by the river’s edge. A cosmic missile to my heart.

  I stared at her for a few moments, watching her watch the river float by. It was beautiful, a timeless perfect painting, almost too pristine to touch. And then I moved up beside her, gazing at our shared reflection in the river. She didn’t move. Funny, I didn’t look so wild with her standing beside me. Now and then the rippling waters distorted our images, making it difficult to distinguish where she ended and I began.

  “What took you so long?” she suddenly asked.

  “Got stuck in traffic. Wait, you knew I was coming?”

  “You would make a bad stalker. Sooo obvious.”

  “You saw me? But then why did you leave?”

  Softly smiling, she replied, “I don’t like to be stalked. I like to be met.”

  “I met you the other day.”

  After a few moments, she turned to me and replied, “Too soon…”

  I saw her physically for the first time: high cheekbones, wavy blond hair, and bright green eyes that sparkled of whimsy and wonder. She had an adorably cleft chin, light freckles on her cheeks and small crow’s feet around her eyes, just like mine. She was small in stature—perhaps 5’2”—but with a powerful, dignified presence that made her seem taller. She looked wholesome and pure, but there was an edge to her too. I imagined her 23 years old, at most.

  “Do you always write on rocks?” I asked.

  “Often. I like to talk to nature. It listens.”

  “Isn’t chalk bad for the environment?”

  “Smart-ass, I use eco-friendly chalk. But what do you really want to know?”

  “Really want to know?” I echoed.

  “Below the smart retorts, how do you really want to relate with me right now?”

  I was taken aback. She was calling me to a place below my defenses. Too soon.

  “It’s getting dark, shall we head back?” I suggested.

  Sensing my discomfort, she let me off the hook. “Yes, let’s go.”

  I followed her as she moved through the forest like a lithe and graceful animal. She walked close to the ground, avoiding trees and boulders, skirting the main trail. I could barely keep up. After only a few minutes, we cleared the forest and stepped on the main road. I reached for my cell phone to call a taxi, but she motioned me to put the phone away. “Let’s walk, okay?” she said.

  I walked beside her in silence. She walked lighter now, almost whimsically, bouncing a little off the ground. As we got closer to town, I was overcome by the surest sense of familiarity. My God, I know this being, I know this essence. And then it went deeper, as her arm against mine excavated our shared lineage: Did I not tell you to turn left at the enchanted forest all those lifetimes ago? Why did you turn right? I’ve been wandering this world looking for you ever since. I felt a deep relief, as though lifetimes of isolation had finally come to an end.

  I wish I could say that it all seemed fantastical. But it wasn’t like that at all. I had just entered an unmistakably deepened reality, one where the terms of engagement are beyond the grasp of the rational mind—one where the soul’s journey is paramount, where essence isn’t a concept but a felt experience.

  And all of that from a thirty minute walk.

  We arrived in town and sat down in a small park. With our toes in a creek, we shared some of the details of our lives. Her name was Sarah Lynn Harding. She was actually 26—ten years younger than me. Born in Rensselaer, Indiana, she moved with her parents to Boulder at the age of 2. The adopted only child of a welder and a tailor, her Dad had actually helped to construct the Morrow Point Dam, in Colorado.

  A poetry major as an undergraduate, Sarah made her living as an aide in a nursing home with the elderly, until she could figure out her ultimate career path. She lived with her parents in their mountain home with two golden retrievers, Smokey and Bear. Her Catholic parents went to church every Sunday. She seldom went with them, preferring nature as her place of worship.

  Not surprisingly, we loved and recited some of the same Rumi and Kabir poems. We were entranced by the same kinds of music: kirtan, devotional chants, rhythm and blues. We both loved impressionistic water colors and the surrealistic magic of Salvador Dali. We shared a love of camping and hiking. We even shared a passion for handicapping thoroughbred horse races, a hobby our fathers had both introduced us to. And it was so much more than that. Cut from the same soul cloth, our connection felt both transpersonal and deeply personal at the same time. We danced to the same heartbeat in the seen and unseen realms.

  “Ten years difference, that’s significant,” I said, suddenly concerned she would find me too old.

  “Stage not age, Lowen,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “But I’m at a different stage.”

  “Maybe... or maybe you’re just delusional.”

  I laughed. “Why did you say ‘too soon’ about our first meeting?”

  “Because we weren’t ready.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Because I had something to clear first. And I felt you... I feel you.”

  “Am I ready now?”

  “You’d better be, because I am, and I asked for this.”

  “I asked for it too. On my knees, in the forest, last year.”

  “Me too. On my knees, in th
e forest, last year.”

  “I saw this coming from a thousand miles away.”

  “Yes, we did.”

  Deep shit love.

  We both reached in for a hug at the same time, melting into each other with great tenderness. Although silent, I could almost hear our souls conversing in the deep within.

  After some time, Sarah got up and asked if I was free tomorrow. I answered yes, completely forgetting my flight home.

  “Meet me here at 11 in the morning. I have somewhere to take you.”

  “Take me, you have already taken me,” I mumbled.

  “Corny, dude. Let’s stay away from corny.”

  Not a chance.

  Then she jumped up like a sprite and bounded down the trail lickety-split. As her image faded into dark, I was sure I heard a loud scream of delight. Was it coming from her… from me… or from God himself? Distinctions were becoming difficult to make.

  Walking back to the hotel, I felt anxiety and ecstasy dancing through me in equal measure. As my joy increased, my fear intensified. Perhaps this is always the way it is when we have something precious to lose? The precarious nature of life reveals itself, reminding us to hold our treasures safe.

  3

  Hearticulations

  I got up after another sleepless night and postponed my flight to the next day. No choice. I walked down the path to our meeting point at exactly 11 a.m. She wasn’t there. I panicked, remembering that I still didn’t have any real information about her—no phone, no email, nothing. I started pacing, anxiously looking for her in every direction.

  Suddenly, I heard a giggle emanating from above. I looked up to see Sarah sitting on a high branch of a large tree, her back pushed up against the thick trunk. Her smiling eyes immediately calmed me. She scaled down like a tree-climbing Olympian, a blue piece of chalk in her right hand.

  “Talking to the trees again?” I remarked, in my usual sarcastic style.

  “No, the chalk is for later. Let’s go,” she said, slightly annoyed. “My car is close by.”

  As we drove away from Boulder in her circa 1967 VW Beetle, I experienced yet another déjà vu, as though we had stumbled into the pre-written movie of our lives. I sat beside her in silence, completely sated. In her presence, the psychic locomotive slowed to a crawl, as a unified consciousness filled the space. The petty details fell away, the essentials emerged. Sarah was a mouthful, a handful, a dram of sweet metaphors. I already loved her completely.

  Rivers of Essence

  We soon arrived at a place called Rocky Mountain national Park. When we got out of the car, she headed straight for the brush, yet again. I followed her, scurrying tentatively over fallen trees and rough ground. There was no visible trail, but it didn’t seem to matter. She knew where we were headed.

  After a half hour, we opened to a wondrous valley. At its heart was a lively river, sparkling and churning between two rock formations. Spidery rock climbers scaled the jagged mountain across the way. After a few moments, she took off her shoes and ran down the hill toward the river. I took my shoes off and clumsily raced after her. She was fast, a spry little wood nymph with winged feet. Whenever I got close, she darted off in another direction, laughing joyfully. Just before the river, I caught up with her and we found our way to a large rock at the river’s edge.

  Sarah spoke: “This has always been a precious place for me. I come here to remember. I never came here with anyone. Until now.” I looked into her eyes, not knowing quite what to say. I was never at a loss for words when I was talking about nothing, but heart-talk was an entirely different thing. I had yet to establish the resonance and groove.

  The river raced by, as the sun’s rays bounced off the water. I moved in to kiss her. Our lips brushed. She pulled back, tilting her head to the left. Then she furrowed her brow and looked square on into me, as though to say, “This moment should not be taken lightly. This little kiss is a BIG step.”

  “You know we don’t need that. We’re already there,” she said.

  “Need what?”

  “The physical.”

  “But...”

  “Desire gets in the way.”

  “But what about healthy desire?”

  She was quiet for a moment, and then asked, “Does it ever stay healthy?” like someone whose youthfulness belied her wisdom.

  I stepped back and looked right at her. With one gaze into her eyes, all words fell away. And it didn’t matter at all. In this place of hearticulation, there was no need for words. This love spoke a language all its own, a grammarless lexicon of longing and union. Who needs syllables when you can hear each other’s souls?

  I moved toward her again. This time she met me. We stayed with our lips locked for minutes, plummeting deeper and deeper into love with every breath. Entranced by her divinity, my breath fell into alignment with hers, bridging our hearts across the dimensions. Profound love sensations coursed through me, stroking my armored heart back to life. I opened my eyes, and I saw that her eyes were opened too. It was the nature of this love to want to be seen.

  This love didn’t just transcend the details, it transformed them. The rock we stood on became an eternal bridge, erected for she and I alone, ushering us deeper into wonder with every kiss. The cold water that splashed against our ankles, the rivers of essence. The hands that touched my face with tenderness, the hands of divinity. The more time we spent together, the holier the world became. We had opened the door to a sacred universe. I felt both impenetrable and entirely exposed at the same time. Yet another undress rehearsal.

  In the no-blink of an eye, I got it. Enlightenment isn’t a head trip—it’s a heart trip. Gusts of God blowing through the portal of the heart. We may want to enlighten through the safety of the mind, but the God-self lives in vulnerable places. As we dunked our hearts in the rivers of essence, everything became God. And God became everything. Holy moly!

  After what felt like an eternity, we started to walk the trails. I looked at my watch. We had only been by the river for 30 minutes. So strange. Time lasts forever when you are actually in the moment.

  “How do we hold this safe, Lowen?” Sarah wondered aloud.

  The question struck me.

  “What do you mean?” I inquired tentatively.

  “Just being with you is enough. I feel so close to you already. Maybe if we keep it simple, we will avoid the upsets.”

  “But how do we keep it sim…”

  Before I could finish my sentence, a red cardinal flew right past us, perilously close to Sarah’s face.

  Sarah became excited. Her eyes lit up like a child who had seen something beautiful for the first time. “Do you know what a cardinal represents, Lowen? They represent transformation. Pa used to study the birds. Red cardinals are a fiery symbol of change. Seeing them is a strong sign. One came close to me the day we met, too.”

  I couldn’t help but wonder if it was the same one I saw.

  She bounced like a tigger down the trail, before getting serious again.

  “Perhaps we keep things chaste. Avoid the sexuality. Just being together is everything, yes?”

  “Are you not attracted to me?” asked my ego.

  She stopped dead in her tracks and turned to face me.

  “My essence, my body want you fully, but this connection feels so pure. I just don’t know if spirituality and sexuality can mix without getting spoiled. Maybe the saints are right.”

  I wanted to protest, but said nothing. Not because I didn’t have an argument for her—I mean, surely sexuality can be a spiritual experience—but because a part of me resonated with her words. I could feel tremendous energy in the sexual field between us—expansive, but potentially explosive—so bloody hot to the touch. Too hot to the touch? The connection felt like a precious jewel. How to protect it from itself?

  “Let’s lie down on the ground, okay?” she suggested.

  I nodded yes, as she steered us towards a small clearing between two large trees.

  We lay down beside
one another on a patch of long grass. Sarah wrapped her body around mine, her legs entwining mine like two trees with a unified root. We fell fast asleep on the valley floor, merging our energies with Mother Earth. Our first sleep together.

  After a few hours, I was startled awake by strange, foreboding dreams. Sarah was sitting beside me, staring at me intently. I got the feeling she had been staring at me for some time. It was getting dark in the forest.

  “You okay?” she asked.

  “Wild dreams.”

  “Yah, me too. We bring up everything in each other.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I mean: the brighter the love, the darker the shadow.”

  “You love… me?”

  She looked away, quietly speaking, “It seems too obvious for words.”

  Obvious or not, it felt good to hear it.

  “Let’s head out before it’s too dark. I don’t want you to get lost in the bush, city boy,” she said with a mischievous smile.

  As we drove back to Boulder, I heard from a whole boardroom of inner cynics. My defenses were much too sturdily constructed to evaporate this quickly. My rational self dropped down from the clouds to remind me that I don’t actually know this woman: This is way the hell out there, Lowen. You just met her—you need to get to know someone before you love them.

  I also heard from my warrior self, stoking my fear of failure with visions of career sabotage: This connection threatens everything you have built. You need focus to build your practice. You need to hold yourself together. Don’t let this derail your ambitions.

  My inner humorist had the final word, reminding me that the only way to see God at first sight was to be born in heaven. God at first sight? You must be on LSD!

  Maybe I was—Love’s Supreme Drug.

  The cynics went quiet the moment I looked over at her. A tear tumbled softly down her cheek. I didn’t need to ask why she was crying. I knew. Tears of joy. I reached over and stole her tear, putting it to my lips.

  We stopped at a red light. She turned to look at me, eyes tender and moist. “I’m scared too,” she said. The light turned green.

  When we got back to Boulder, she pulled up in front of my hotel to drop me off.