Something snapped inside. It was as if there was an audible “break” from within. Where, he could not tell — panic was setting in — he did not care where it came from. It was horrific and frightening.
He found himself no longer inside himself, but watching himself from a distance, almost as in a dream state. He saw himself picking up a rake that someone had been using in the nearby flower bed of Cosmos, and started swinging it like a major league baseball player going for a home run, inside the gazebo in a mad fit of rage like he had never experienced, let alone seen, even in the most violent of movies. The handle of the rake made contact with the clay hanging pots holding an assortment of petunias and pansies, exploding as if they were fragmentation grenades, sending shards of pottery streaking through the immediate area at lightning-like speeds. The macramé hangers swung as if they were being blown by hurricane force winds.
He continued swinging the splintering rake handle, as the head of the rake had broken off on the first swing, narrowly hitting a passerby, hitting the posts of the gazebo until the handle shattered into splinters of wood. The fragments pierced into his hands, causing blood to flow freely, covering his hands in a bath of dark red. Yet, there was no pain. He dropped the remaining bits of handle, and began pounding the gazebo posts with his fists, screaming, yelling, sounds of deep, searing pain that had been stored inside for decades, howling from his insides like no one could ever imagine. There was no controlling himself. One of the redwood posts of the gazebo, which held up the roof cracked and gave way under the thundering of his fists. He wailed, he swung, he hit, he kicked, he fell on the floor of the gazebo, finally completely exhausted, still bawling uncontrollably. He was no longer in the world of sanity, but of maniacal brutality and confusion, of fear and pain.
Unknown to him, the people around him stopped and were watching silently. They did not show any signs of horror or shock, but more of sadness and even more of understanding. No words were spoken, just the gaze of what one would expect from an understanding mother who had seen her young son realize the death of a close friend. Only a look of warm compassion, of softness, of understanding seemed to exist.
While the young man lay on the gazebo floor sobbing, a tall, older man approached him slowly and softly. He reached down and placed his large yet gentle and warm hand on the shoulder of the sobbing and shaking young man. The young man was startled as he had not been aware of anyone around him. The touch was not threatening, but comforting. It was almost like an energizing yet calming charge that seemed to emit from his being. The young man’s sobbing ceased almost immediately.
As if it were an unspoken signal, the others returned to their soft conversations, their strolls, or their work around the garden. They seemed to act as if nothing had even happened.
The young man, feeling completely exhausted and weak, tried to sit up. With the gentle assistance of the older gentleman, they sat on the bench inside what remained of the gazebo.
“I am so very sorry!” the young man cried, shaking in fear and exhaustion.
The older man smiled, and in a soft, gentle and deep tone of maturity said, “We have been waiting for you.”
“Excuse me?”
“Yes, you have been expected. We are happy you were able to find your way here in time,” the older gentleman said.
The young man was flabbergasted. “You must have me confused with someone else. I was not even planning on coming here. I didn’t even know about this place before today! I just came up here to see what was here before I . . .” he stopped, realizing he was rambling.
“We are glad you helped the young mother and her children. You know, most would have just continued driving and done nothing.”
Before he could realize the full impact of what the older gentleman had said, he thought to himself, “How did he know about that?” Maybe they saw him from here? No, that was four miles or further back, completely out of sight from anywhere around here. Maybe someone else here who was driving by at the time saw what happened and told him. But there were no other cars in the parking lot!
The older gentleman had deep, almost invading, piercing eyes, yet they were still gentle and knowing. They were eyes that had seen both horror and peace and everything in between. His hands, though large, were gentle, much like the tone of his voice. An odd person, especially in a place like Southern California, the land of drive-by shootings and “Sunday, go to church, Monday go to hell” attitude type people!
“What do you mean you were expecting me?” the young man asked, knowing he had to understand something. After all, nothing else had made sense today, let alone the rest of his life.
“You were expected today because it was time for you to come here,” he replied.
“That makes absolutely no sense at all. I was on my way to, well, I don’t need to tell you where I was going, but I was definitely NOT coming here! I didn’t even know this place existed! I am still not sure it is. For all I know right now, this is just a dream, part of my own nightmare.”
“You needn’t worry. You will understand soon enough,” the older man assured him. “Let’s take a walk, if you are feeling strong enough now.”
“Sure, I guess so,” the young man replied, shrugging and not knowing what to say, even though he was still feeling weak and frail like a thin thread of blown glass. Maybe embarrassed and exposed were two more definitions that would have fit into his definition of the feelings he had within him at this moment.
He realized the day suddenly felt warmer, and even comfortable. The young man had not felt so aware of his surroundings in years. As he gazed at the grounds, at the neighboring lands, at the landscape, he began to feel 'at ease', something he had not felt for a long time, as it was not safe to feel that way. Usually, when one let down one’s guard, one would get jumped on by the hobnail boots of fate, resulting in one disaster after another. At least, that was his experience.
He felt weak from exhaustion, somewhat on the verge of collapse, yet he stayed strong so as not to embarrass himself again. He began to speak. “Again, I am terribly sorry for acting like such a jerk. I need to make amends. I am not usually such a raving lunatic, . . . at least I didn’t think so. I don’t know what came over me.”
“Yes, you do,” the older gentleman said calmly, with almost an allknowing smile. “It was the time in your story to begin the process of letting go of your ‘melodrama’ and begin your healing.”
“Melodrama? Healing? What do you know about me? What are you saying?” The young man was not only confused, but was beginning to feel as if he were being invaded by someone who knew ‘too much’ about his personal life. The defense warning signals were going off again. Nobody has the right to get inside someone else like this!
A bit of the realization of what he had done to this place started to creep back in. His actions, even though he was not completely aware of them at the time, were still criminal. ‘Time to swallow my pride and do what I can to mend the broken fence, so to speak.’ “Please let me know how I may repay you for all of the damage I have done. I have money. Just give me an estimate and I will make good on these terrible things I have done today.”
The older gentleman, in the gentlest of tones, began to laugh, ever so softly. “What is the price of your medicine? Is that what you are asking? What would you like to do so you will feel more comfortable with your ‘embarrassment’?”
“You know, you are most confusing. I do not understand a single thing you just said. Medicine? I come in here uninvited, destroy the place and you treat me like I am some sort of welcomed guest. Why?”
“Your life story is here today. This is your time to be here. Everything that happened so far today is what brought you here. Even what you see as your unfortunate divorce, your parents dying, and even what you felt as humiliation in the third year of elementary school when you received your first black eye from that fight you had with your classmate, all brought you here today. It is all part of your story.”
The “mental alarms” started going off like bells to a four-alarm fire. How did he know about my divorce? Third grade? He knew about that? Defensiveness continued to fill him, feeling completely vulnerable to everything. He was transparent to this guy. How in everything that is living know about my history?
“Okay I give up. Who knows me here? Who told you about me,” he demanded. “I know. This is a psychic organization! No, a government “think tank” organization disguised as a meditation retreat! CIA? That’s it!”
The older gentleman just smiled and said, “You think too much. Your brain is getting in the way of your mind. Breathe the fresh air and see what you can do to calm yourself down, just a little.”
After a couple of slow, deep breaths, he did, indeed, feel a little more “under control” . . . confused, but at least a little more calm.
A little more subdued, he said, “You keep talking about my ‘story’. What do you mean?” the young man asked, feeling so confused he could still not think clearly. It felt as if someone had put a bale of cotton in his head and it was muffling his thoughts.
Yet, something was beginning to feel like a glimmer of hope of understanding. “No, impossible!” he thought to himself, denying that there could even be a glimmer of hope in this nightmarish hell.
The older gentleman stopped, looked out over view of the ocean, pointing to a pod of migrating Grey Whales on their way to Baja for the upcoming winter. “They are early this year,” he said.
The young man finally saw the double exhaust of the breath of one of the leading baleen whales. It was always a spectacular sight. He had taken one of the whale watching cruises out of Ventura Harbor a number of years ago. It was quite an education, as well as a wonderful day to spend with his wife on their honeymoon. The older gentleman, while continuing to gaze at the whales, said, “The whales do this every year. It is their story. They make the longest migration of any of the cetaceans.”
“Yes, but what does that have to do with me?” the young man asked.
“Everyone has a ‘story’. A drama, if you like. You have your lessons to learn, your forms of entertainment, your experiences, that make up your life ‘story,' your ‘his-story’ if you wish. You have yours, I have mine, and the whales have theirs.”
“Okay, but what does that have to do with me being here and running amok like an idiot?” he asked, feeling confused with his frustration beginning to build again.
“Young man, you are not the only one in your drama. Everyone you run across in your life is part of your story. That includes everyone you see here, including me. Since we are in the drama, don’t you think we should know what parts we are playing?”
“Most people do not know they play parts in other people’s lives, so they do not get involved in the story line. Here, we act in the ‘play’ with the story of those who come here. We read the script, if you wish. We read the script of your story. That’s all.”
“As everyone you run across is part of your story, remember, too, that you are part of THEIR story as well. It is all meshed, linked, if you wish. There is no ‘black and white’ in this game of life. Everyone and everything blends with everyone and everything else.” “Have we met some other time? Is that how you know me? This is all so confusing.” The young man was missing his “comfort zone” of the world of confusion he had been used to for so many years of his life. This was all new thinking. Strange thinking. Crazy thinking!
“Let’s ‘worry’ about that at a later time. You didn’t even eat lunch today. How about joining us for dinner, and then we can discuss your “payment” as you wish to call it. Okay with you?”
The young man could only shrug and nod in agreement.