Jumping (9 page)

“Known is not even an encompassing enough word for what we've been to each other. You tell me a word for it. We've been each other's midwife, mother, father, sister, brother, torturer, betrayer, lover, child, killer, priest, concubine, teacher, and more. We've breathed each other's breaths, died each other's deaths. We've been that close, and closer. Sharing skin and scent. We've been
one
. Remember?”

I just look at him, mesmerized by what he's telling me. He looks back, in no rush. “I remember,” he continues, “when I was a person once on Earth, late at night, staring at a clear sky full of a million stars and feeling one with all the world, and every single person in it. I was nothing, and I was something, and all of it felt immense. It's like that for us, here, but multiplied a few thousand times.”

He laughs, rubbing his face, stirring loose tea leaves into the now-boiling water. “I know you and you know me, inside and out, in a way that is much more intimate than you know yourself.”

It makes me think of Reggie—how she was me and I was her, while still being ourselves—so close we knew each other's thoughts and feelings, yet so respectful we didn't touch that knowing, just accepted it. But that seems a pale shadow of what he's talking about.

“In between being people on Earth, we come here or a place like this—an agreed upon gathering place with a set of coordinates, and we've reviewed lives, laughing and crying, deeply moved by our own and each other's performance, by how hard we tried, how much we messed up, how much we meant well, how painful it all was, even when we thought we were having fun or being successful or were at the top of our game.” He shakes his head and laughs again.

I'm trying to keep up and focus on his words, when I suddenly realize he's not speaking—
he's directly communicating inside my head
. He's sharing what he knows and answering questions I'm not aware I'm even asking, so I stop trying to keep up and just let it come.

“We've plotted and planned lives together, and then gone and lived them, together or in opposition to each other. Or we've done this—offering the best, most heartfelt kind of support we can think to offer to those living the life, as forcefully and strategically as we can from the other side in this no-place place. We're reminded, as we watch our people how unutterably, unendingly hard it can be to be a person. And how heartbreakingly hard it is to try to reach them. Most of us think of Earth as the ultimate trial. We know that we ourselves have been broken by it over and over, crushed to nothing before we began to even gain a toe hold on the essentials.

“Having pulled the necessary and legendary ‘wool of forgetfulness’ over ourselves when we enter Earth, we face the assault of being human alone, in a human body, sure we are ultimately ‘born alone and die alone,’ or even that it's all ‘dust to dust.’ We weep, we moan, we fornicate, we lie, we steal, we sell ourselves, we run, we hide, we commit all sorts of sordid, unspeakable acts, all to avoid actually believing the untruth we've created—that we're born alone, die alone. The truth is we're never alone—birth, death, whenever! How's that for irony?” He laughs loud at this, his breath fanning the small fire.

I watch as he stirs the brewing tea. He pours some into the cap of his thermos for me. I take it gratefully.

“Most of this kind of talk makes your fellow Team members here laugh uproariously. It's so ridiculous to us, while we're here, that all of us are capable of veering so far off our carefully laid plans while under the influence of life on Earth. And we do it over and over again, despite our sober, sacred oaths of allegiance to the plan.

“But we're all up against Earth's strong and long-established institutionalized thought when we're there. Established Earth thought stands in direct opposition to all that we know to be true. And people on Earth, mostly, won't stand for what we know, not for a single minute. On Earth, what we
know to be true
is all dismissed as delusional babel, at best. At worst, it's treason, sedition, or even evil—crimes punishable by death. Think about your own American history. People have been
hung
for just talking the way we talk.” He grins and continues, before I can think of a reaction to that.

“Anyway, I do digress, a habit across many lifetimes, I'm told. Don't hesitate to call me on it, please. To get back to your questions, I'm the one who refers to this place as ‘Station 1,’ and I do it on purpose. I do it because it reminds me of watching
Star Trek
on Earth. Watching that and seeing that vision of the future allowed us to see reality ahead of schedule, to know that there was more to come. That was terrifically heartening. And, as we've all learned the hard way—by ignoring them—we come to know everything through these kinds of
connections
to what we like, to what matters to us, even if it is a television show.” He laughs again. “Yes, television is a distraction, but like almost anything else, it's not all bad. You all spend so much time with it, we've come to know it better, too, through your references.”

I sit, mesmerized by him, my tea forgotten. Our conversation is happening in my head, as if he's inside it. To describe the closeness of that—as close as your own thought—is impossible. It's as much about having a feeling as it is about having a thought or a dialogue.

“As for the
call
, like the one you just made, it usually just appears in our knowing and then we
will
ourselves here, to Station 1. What kind of call, you're asking? It's a call for services. Our services, to be specific, because we're cohorts, having started out at the same time, and because we've discovered why we've survived and we know how to use that hard-won knowledge. If you combine all of our experiences on Earth, we've survived most of whatever you're going through there, along with stuff you couldn't now imagine surviving, most of it more than once, and some of it with you.

“The difference between you and us, in this moment, is that we can access full awareness of our experiences—what to do, what not to do—but you're not usually privy to that awareness where you are. Sometimes, you exist
here
, right where we are now, answering calls about us.”

He looks over at me. “You still want to know why we come. We come because the call means there's an opportunity. For service. Let me tell you what I mean by that archaic old word ‘service,’ because I don't mean what you people on Earth often do. I don't mean that we go into your personal business uninvited or that we try to ‘fix’ things for you, so you don't have to. We don't try to spare you any of your own experience, or tell you what to do, even if asked. We're only allowed to provide hints, clues, and opportunities, so you're reminded you have
choices
.

“You're not a victim of someone else's choices, you're not caught in pre-determined anything, but at the same time nothing is random (pretty much nothing—hah!). So, we might try to point out the obvious in a situation: ‘Hey, remember when you did this before?’ Or remind you of a connection: ‘Um, this person you consider a perfect stranger has been your child.’ Or state the obvious, to us: ‘Don't forget that you know the inner workings of most anything, even if you think you've never seen it before.’ We do this out of love, for those we love, hoping they get the love.

“Say you're the reason for the call,” he smiles, “which you are. This time. But say you're someone who is experiencing a trauma or a vacation or a significant anniversary or birthday or loss—some kind of trigger. Something big. That's our opening to get in there and engage with you on a connecting level. You're shook up, whether you're consciously acknowledging it or not—due to turning 40 or 60, or realizing you've stayed in a relationship too long and don't know how to get out, or you just don't know what to do with yourself without all your usual distractions. Shook up in a good way or a bad way, doesn't matter. You're off balance, not tied down as tightly as usual, and that attracts us. However
you
see it—as disaster or confusion or euphoria—
we
see it as
opportunity
. It's provided our window of opportunity to serve. And we know we have to act fast. Your attention span while you're there is usually short when it comes to things like this! You can be pretty quick in creating a distraction for yourself. After all, you're living in a world of distractions!”

He laughs again and gives my shoulder a push. I push him back, delighted to be playing with him in this way. He acts as if I've given him a powerful push and rolls over to his side and then back up. We laugh again.

I can't argue with him. I remember all the times I decided to have a cigarette, or go for a run, or watch an old movie—anything to shut out uncomfortable feelings. How does service help, I wonder.

“Why service?” he asks. “Without service, no progress is possible, for anybody. If we don't offer help to each other, no one gets ‘past’ anything, or achieves understanding of it so they don't have to do it again and can stop suffering. We're
all
each other's burdens!” he said with a laugh.

“No matter how stoic or how much of a John Wayne anyone is, their progress is not made without our help. Even ‘accidental’ help, a movie or a book or a phone call out of the blue, originates with us and our service.

“Once you recognize the importance of service, you're no longer in opposition to anyone else. You understand that when we become aligned with each other in this way—one for all and all for one—there can be no more war, no more violence toward each other or any other living thing, no more human-caused suffering in the world.”

“Service brings about necessary change in the world and in us. From service we learn understanding and forgiveness. So, we come to your call—see, that wasn't really an endless digression—because we have an abiding love for you that permeates our being. This is what we all do for each other. It can be no other way.”

He looks at me and then says, “And, yes, we do come for ourselves. Because there is no separation. It's a bond stronger than life.”

D
UNCAN
R
OBERT SUGGESTS A
little break, and I nod at him gratefully, shaking out my stiff writing hand, which has been clenching my pencil tighter than usual. Miles stands up and stretches and moves to the sideboard for more tea and something to eat.

“How are you two holding up?” Duncan Robert asks.

“It's a lot to take in. I'll be grateful for the notes.” Miles looks at me.

“I have no idea what I've got,” I say honestly to Miles. “I think I've kept my head down most of the time, so maybe I got most of it.” I look up at Duncan Robert. “I just keep trying to imagine what it must have been like for you! And I can hear the questions my editor will have.”

“It was wonderful for me!” Duncan Robert says, grinning ear to ear. Of course it was, I think. How could he question it, when it was happening to him?

He turns to Miles. “What's that thing you say to your beginning writing classes? About the old Greek definition of a gift? When you're telling them what their writing can be for them?”

“Something you wanted, something you needed, something you never thought you'd get?” Miles asks.

“That's it!” says Duncan Robert. “That's exactly what I got!”

Miles and I look at him and then at each other. I've rarely seen anyone as happy as Duncan Robert is sharing this story. Maybe it's a real relief to him to finally get to share it.

“Okay,” says Miles, as we settle back into our places, he and I on either end of the couch, Duncan Robert in his wing-back chair. I've taken off my shoes, un-tucked my shirt, and pulled my hair back in a pony tail, making myself right at home. Miles has taken off his shoes, too, so that he can put his sock-clad feet on the coffee table. Duncan Robert reaches over the coffee table to pick up one of my tablets and a pencil. He hands them to Miles.

“In case you have any questions. I know it's hard to interrupt me once I get going. I don't want you to leave without your questions answered. And let's order lunch at the next break. Remind me, because I'll forget.”

Impossible to imagine interrupting him, I think. Look what we're hearing. I pick up my pencil and notebook again.

Duncan Robert starts again.

A group of three what look like regular people dressed in white walks through the opening in the back of the cave, the opening that must lead to another tunnel. They're looking at each other happily, and they let loose a gusty exhale of commonly held breath. Then they turn to look at me.

I stand up, trying to take them in, and they surround me jubilantly, greeting me, putting their arms around me, cheering me.

“I didn't know he'd actually be here!” “God, it's good to see you!”

“Look at you! A guy!” They laugh.

“A young guy, too!” They laugh some more.

I have the oddest feeling, stepping inside their ring of intimacy as a member, into an utter explosion of love. And it all feels real, absolutely authentic. And I've never felt more loved. I can feel their energy even now—their positive regard, their open state of mind, their clear intentions.

We all sit together around the fire, laughing and talking.

“You jumped! You actually jumped!”

“No one does this! You're a hero here, you know. Word spread like wildfire.”

“The fairies want you for speaking engagements,” one of the men laughs. “Autographs! Photo opps!”

“The Bird People think you must be one of them!”

“You made us proud that you're one of us,” Guy says. “But you've surpassed us. We're here to learn from you!”

“Wait!” I say, laughing, too. “I'm still trying to remember who you are!”

“Earth time will do that to you,” Guy says, “but it will come back to you.”

“Well, let's help him,” the woman says.

Then, they make a simultaneous decision that they'll introduce themselves by telling how they're each connected to me. They'll do this in the form of a story about a significant lifetime or piece of a lifetime that we shared, person-to-person or guide-to-person. In my mind they are ‘guides,’ but they refer to each other as ‘cohort,’ a more democratic term. They tell me it's natural for me to have trouble thinking of us all as equals while I'm still on Earth.