This is a story by a wonderful soul that has touched many hearts. Though he is now lost in anonymity and has vanished into the ether, his words are still here. I wanted to share them on this blog since the story gave me hope. It gave me hope for love, expansion, and true human connection free of the walls one puts up. I felt a part of my soul reach out in quiet desperation, aching to be recognized. This simple story is touching, deep, and raw. Enjoy.
“I have written before of my first love. The girl who danced in the rain. The girl who breezed in and out of my life but would not be caged. The girl I wanted more than I ever wanted anything yet was always beyond my reach. The girl who broke my heart time and time again but with whom I was ever in love.
I was in my last year of college and had already been accepted into law school. I was a fairly conservative, button down and sweater kind of a guy who drove a sensible car and lived alone. I had not seen nor heard from her in three years. Out of the blue I get a phone call. It is her. Her voice was like the tinkling of bells and in an instant I was under her spell yet again. She told me that she was living in the Artists Colony in Big Sur and that something wonderful was happening there and she wanted me to be a part of it. She said come, come now and bring your poems. I made some arrangements hopped into my Toyota Corolla and headed north up the 101. I was never a very spontaneous kind of guy except when it came to her.
I arrived at the colony just about sunset. There was no place to park. Nobody owned a car. So I had to park about half a mile away and walk to the little forested enclave. She met me wearing a Sari and she looked heavenly. I grabbed her, spun her around and started kissing her. My heart rushed with joy. Just then a strapping, handsome young man, with shoulder length hair, a beard with his hair, hands and clothes covered in marble dust came into the room. He was smiling at us. She looked at him and put her arm around him and introduced him as Matthew Lucas, her lover. My heart dropped out of my chest and rolled in the dust. He brushed his hands off and, instead of shaking my hand, hugged me and bid me welcome. Hugged me. My God, what was going on here?
This man was so handsome, so powerfully built yet so gentle and kind, you could see it in his eyes, that despite everything I knew I was going to like him. He said, come in come in, I have been waiting to meet you. He showed me what he was working on. It was a marble sculpture of a pair of eyes. These eyes were soft and kind yet were made of stone. I sat, and she sat on my lap and laughed and kissed me and not a sisterly kiss but a full and lingering kiss. Matt just beamed at us with joy. I wanted to be jealous. I wanted to be mad. I wanted to hate him. I couldn’t. I just couldn’t.
I was invited to share their bed that night. I politely declined and slept in my down mummy bag in the studio under the watchful marble eyes. I was confused and my mind was spinning. I thought about leaving in the night and driving home and forgetting this whole strange trip. Matt it turns out was one of the heirs to the Proctor and Gamble fortune. Yet, he took no money. He worked carpentry to support his art. His eyes, were the eyes of his sculpture, pure, kind and gentle and without a trace of jealousy or pride.
The next day I was introduced around to the community. What a group. Old hippies, young hippies. Retired doctors and Zen teachers. Writers, poets, painters and sculptors, musicians, madmen and seers. Young, old, some famous some that had just wandered in and stayed. It was an amazing mix of talent. I was introduced as a poet. Immediately, a call went out with a single voice that said: read! read! I pulled out my journal and recited a poem called “Lost in Jerusalem”. As I read some listened eyes closed, one kid played an African drum along with the cadence of the poem. When I finished I knew I had been accepted. The next day, my Khakis and Oxford shirt were taken to be washed and I was given a pair of royal blue loose fitting baggy Indian cotton pants and a blue and gold Dashiki to wear. She handed them to me and said “your colors my love”. I never got my old clothes back.
That night we gathered at the fire pit and one of the madmen, a shaman of sorts, with wild hair and blazing eyes opened a wicker basket. In the basket were mushrooms. A blessing was said and they began to chant. It was this weird Dionysian chant, wild and rhythmic. Hypnotic. Primal. Then as a sacrament each person there took a measured amount of the mushroom. My uncaged bird said “you don’t have to you know. Nobody will care if you pass”. I had been afraid but seeing her calmness and Matt’s smile I regained my courage and took my share. The wild eyed shaman gazed at me with a quizzical and somewhat bemused look and nodded his head.
The night became a blur. I remember dancing. I remember singing. I remember crying. The stars were out and the moon was out and very bright. Brighter than ever I saw it before. Time stood still and then went backward. I felt a part of an ancient rite. The night passed in a wonderful kaleidoscopic blur of experience. Colors, dancing colors, clear colors, like the clear colors of a glass marble only I was in the marble and the color was all around me. Blues mostly, greens, pulsing red and then violet. Chakra colors. Aura colors. My lovely bird smiling at me. Then the pulsing red began again and she began to dance in front of me. Pulsing. Her hips moving with the pulse of the light. She gazed at me with red lust and desire. I heard Matt call to us and saw him climbing a rope ladder. The ladder led to a tree house which overlooked the vast Pacific lit by this amazing full moon and the red, the pulsing. We followed she and I and we collapsed on the cushion. Red, red, red, the Muladhara Chakra pulsing in lust, pure animal desire. Then we, my love and I, were naked and she and I made love, violent love like the love of lions and then fell back exhausted. The last thing I saw was Matt, leaning on the wall of the tree house, smiling, smoking a long white clay pipe. He lifted a finger and I fell unconscious and slept.”
☯ Samsaran ☯