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Table of contents
- Second Stop: Alabama Hills
- A Journey Along The Forgotten World Highway
- 1. Taranaki Pioneer Village
- Data Protection Choices
- NPR Choice page
I step into my cell and I step into what I feel is my real life, the only place of importance in my life, the place where I ought to be forever. If I make the mistake of attending one because of my longing to be good, my wish to pay, in some way, the kind monks for making the silence available to me, I soon run out again, fallen and in a state.
- Reflection in a Mirror!
- My Life: A Beginning That Led to the Realization of Gods Love: An Autobiography of Bishop Dr. Carolyn D. Arnett.
- TREASURE OF MAN- FOURTH EDITION.
The words in the psalms are all of war. I notice which face looks kind and which one bitter. No, the flight is to something much larger than a single text or a particular doctrine.
Second Stop: Alabama Hills
I step into a place that never changes, and with it that part of me, that ground in me, that belongs to changelessness. Not in any exalted way. Like soil or sky or air.
It is all of these things, and has nothing to do with the name or resume that accompanied me when I woke up this morning in my bedroom. I have little patience with the names we give to it, the ways we try to box or package it. It is the truth. There is something real in it—that is the promise of passion—but there is something willed, delusional. Here I step into another self that will never die and is realer than any of the mortal selves I know.
The monks would say that I am carrying on a clandestine affair with my Real Self. I am known as one is in an affair, but known by something eternal and undeluded. The monks would call it God, but I have no need for words at all in my silence. Thomas Merton put this all best, not because he was a Christian, or even because he was a monk, but because he fell in love with silence. And he made the pursuit of that real life his lifelong mission.
A Journey Along The Forgotten World Highway
He knew, he saw that it was akin to the earthly love we feel, that the heightening, the rising up to a higher place, the making sense of things—above all, the disappearance of the tiny, petty self we know—when we fall in love with Eve or Adam is our closest approximation to this state, as certain drugs can give us an indication of what lies beyond. But it is only an approximation, a momentary glimpse; when you are here, you are in absolute calm. Alas, her illumination does not last for long. But all the movements and journeys I have taken around the world are underwritten, at heart, by this: this is who I am when nobody is looking.
1. Taranaki Pioneer Village
I am as still, as timeless as the plate of sea below me. I keep quiet about this pilgrimage, often, because it sounds stupid to other people, or to myself, to put into words to them. Hours later I woke with the sun in my face.
I turned over and looked at my clock. It was already past ten. I rubbed my face, then groaned. Instinctively, I was trying to remember what I had to do that day when it hit me that I had nothing to do. I was dead. Zero responsibilities. Zero expectations. Actually, being a zero.
Data Protection Choices
A nothing. My reality was still settling in. As you deduced by my obituary, the world thinks I was killed in that plane crash. You probably remember hearing about the accident. For a while it dominated the media. The media reported that all passengers and crew on board were killed. As stated flatteringly in my obituary, I was a seminar presenter.
- THE LOST PRINCE!
- The International Monthly, Volume 4, No. 4, November 1, 1851.
- Practical Lithography!
- Filipino American Lives (Asian American History & Cultu).
- The Secret Journey - Pico Iyer Journeys.
A stage salesman. I sold the Charles James Wealth package. In older days I would have been called a huckster or charlatan—the successor of a snake-oil salesman. Working the stage, I railed at people who believed in fate. Yet here I was, as swept away by circumstances as a swimmer pulled over Niagara Falls. Was fate the reason I was still alive? If so, why would it choose me to survive? Maybe fate has a sense of humor. People would be coming. People always come together after a death.
I wondered how it would happen. In most cases of death there are spouses and partners, mourning family, all connected to the deceased, coming together to complete the tasks and rituals of death. The only familial obligation I had was a legal one. It was the child support payment I made monthly to Monica. I suppose that would be the first in a long series of legal actions.
As I lay in bed thinking about where to go, I heard a noise downstairs. Someone was opening my door. Someone with a key. My heart froze. I walked out of my room and peered around the corner to see who it was. The door swung open. At first no one entered. Then a woman hobbled in sideways, awkwardly dragging two large suitcases. It was Marta, one of my cleaning ladies. She was a fairly recent addition to the crew. She spoke no English and mostly kept to herself.
Now she had come to take my things.
NPR Choice page
My first thought was to go charging downstairs, but I stopped myself. Was it worth losing my anonymity over a few knickknacks? Still, the thought of her stealing from me infuriated me. First, who was she going to tell? She could tell her boss, but since she had no business being in my house alone, she would likely be fired. Second, even if she somehow did tell someone, who would believe her?
Dead as a coffin nail. It was her word against the overwhelming crush of media.