A Spiritual Encounter

A young, troubled writer fails to find purpose or spirituality in his life. However, he ultimately learns that some times things don't reveal themselves to you unless you stop looking altogether.

A Spiritual Experience

 

This morning I woke up to an ear-shattering scream of a familiar male voice. I was so terrified in my dazed morning stupor that I fell out of bed screaming in my own defense until the two voices colluded into a single, synchronous howl. I scanned the room but there was no one else there. The voice was mine…

Of course it was mine.

Lately, these troubled awakenings have become part of my morning routine- not much different than shutting off the din of the alarm clock or peeling back the covers: Just one more thing I have to deal with before I drag myself out of bed and try to find a decent reason to start the day.

 I rarely do.

Most mornings are much worse though: torn pages of books scattered around the room, picture frames diminished into spider webs of shattered glass. It was only last week that I came to consciousness lying on the stark wooden floors, trapped in a tight cocoon of sheets and blankets, shards of glass speckled with blood decorating the room from the lamp I managed to smash against the wall. 

I still haven’t replaced the bulb. I prefer the darkness anyway.

You’d think it’d be the opposite though, because of the nightmares. Most people with troubled dreams wake up, find themselves gasping for air and almost instinctively reach to their lamp to flood the room with light. Because, to most people, light offers solace, a comforting beacon of life.

I mean, what could be less threatening than life?

This is the way I used to think.

Not anymore.

It’s ironic in a way; the reason I prefer to live in the dark is because the very thing that disturbs my dream, the one thing that casts its insidious shadow on my sanity, is light.

You see, I once had what they call a “spiritual experience.” It happened on September 2nd, 1998- the day after my fifteenth birthday. That evening, the air was damp and heavy as the sky dragged the sun below the horizon, only the final, blood red tinge of light visible in the sky. My mother just had surgery and I was bringing her back from the hospital. It wasn’t anything serious, just a minor operation, but she needed me to drive.

It was one of the first times I had driven my mom’s 1964 coupe and the morning rain left the roads slick and glassy.

Though, that had nothing to do with it.

We were turning onto our street when I saw the headlights. Two sinister infernos of light burning brighter and brighter, fueled by the trucks closing distance. The moment before impact I couldn’t help but notice the light’s resemblance to a pair of eyes. I remember thinking they were probably the eyes of the reaper. Or, perhaps those of God. I don’t even remember the moment of impact. I just recall a thick, bitter taste in my mouth and the biting scent of blood and gasoline, and then I lost consciousness.

Some time after, my heart stopped.

I found myself in a tiny void of white light.

 Except, I didn’t find myself.

And the void wasn’t tiny-it was    i    n    f    i    n    i    t    e.

And I was the void. I was the light.

I just waited for something to happen, for whatever comes after the light..

I waited, for God.

But he never came. I don’t think he ever will, ever had.

It’s strange in a way.

Strange how non-existent, how empty and hopeless, you can feel in a place so luminous- how mangled and obscured you’re perception of God can be in a realm filled with the utmost clarity.

I searched and searched for a higher spiritual being, but there was only one being in that void.

And I was a part of it.

When I was jolted back into consciousness, I hardly noticed the high pitch cry of the defibrillator or devilish smile on the face of the young paramedic holding it. I think my vision must have started working before my heart started to beat again, because the moment my pulse returned I found my eyes already searching for my mother. When I tried to sit up, my head, heavy as a boulder, instantly pulled me back down to the ground. When I turned to my right the scene before me didn’t quite seem real: blood from my head streamed into the nearest gutter, liquor bottles were littered around the truck, and three mangled, lifeless bodies lay before me.

I noticed there were only two people in the other car.

 

As the blood continued to flood from my skull, I began to blackout,

and I welcomed the darkness.

 

I once heard about a man who crashed his motorcycle into a tree, and while he treaded on the line between life and death, he witnessed God. He said that God radiated a spectrum of colors so beautiful pure and vivid they fused together into a perfect whiteness. Like a dove.

Unfortunately, I lack imagination.

 

Every day I wish my encounter had left me in the same awe-stricken state of bewilderment that other near-death survivors have written about. Maybe then, instead of screaming myself awake every morning, or wondering how many Xanax bars I’m going to need to numb my way through the day, I could get out of bed feeling like my life is building momentum towards something, like there’s a reason to it all.

But I don’t.

In fact, the only thing my spiritual experience ever left me was scared-shitless and without a mother. 

So now as I shower, running my fingers through my hair, tracing the outline of the scar running from the pinnacle of my scalp to my hairline, I think of her and what she would say if she saw the pathetic creature I’ve turned into since the accident nine years ago. I wonder if she would mention the crumpled white roses wasting away on my windowsill or the pungent stench of rotting fish pouring out of my refrigerator. Surely she wouldn’t let my failure to leave the house because my deathly fear of anything that exists beyond the confines of my living room be overlooked. Jake, your twenty-four years old, you need to get on with your life! She would say. There is so much waiting for you behind these walls and you’re never going to experience any of it if you keep hiding behind them.

 

As I shuffle down the narrow hallway in my pale bathrobe and grey slippers I notice the faded black paint cracking and chipping off the walls, the crooked alignments of the pictures hanging from them. Instinctively, I almost stop to correct them. Then I remind myself, What’s the point?

 

In the kitchen the sun leaks through the blinds, the aluminum pans toss light around the room, so I shut them and put on a pot of coffee. The small whiteboard on the refrigerator leaves a reminder from the day before: Finish writing manuscript before Jed stops by on Monday.

 

Jed is a grim skeleton of a man who would most likely be blown away by a gust of wind if it weren’t for the mass of books he always hoards around in his briefcase. Jed’s the head literary agent for a small publishing company and comes by my house about once a month to nag at me about my work.

A few years ago, after I removed myself from my prestigious career of mopping vomit off of bathroom floors, I managed to make a living away from the blue- collar work force by occasionally scribbling out a few sorry pieces of literature, which, in these times, apparently have the merit to pass as horror novels.

Why he keeps printing them, I don’t know.

 

I never thought I’d end up where I am now. When I first put my pen to paper I didn’t think of it as writing a novel. No. In those days I was a certifiably disturbed vagrant. I was starving and terrified, anger perpetually drove me towards the brink of delirium. I felt crippled, beaten, and abandoned by the world, ripped apart by the shrapnel of a never-ending internal warfare, which the only means to save myself was to expel those venomous thoughts from my mind.

Clearly, I needed help, but during the time the only prescription I could afford was one for a ballpoint pen and a roll of toilet paper I swiped from a gas station.

Which, to this day, ended up being the best medicine I ever used.

 

It wasn’t until I was on my way to no-place-in-particular on a subway one day when Jed asked me about my writing. I still wonder what kind of courage he must have had to muster up to interrupt an obviously crazed vagabond, scratching his soul out on a*s wipes, just to ask what he was working on.

Perhaps he was more desperate than I was.

 

But I’m not complaining because Jed has given me two things I never thought I’d be able to have: a roof over my head, and a good reason to never have to face the world again. I even get freedom to choose what I write, he always tells me. Though, I’m pretty sure the reason he says it isn’t because he’s scared to hurt my creative pride, but because the only thing I ever write is horror and I think he wants me to take on something new. I’m not too scared to disappoint him though, because on Monday he’ll be driving home with the usual stuff.

 

But then again, maybe my works aren’t as bad as I give them credit for. I mean, people keep buying them after all. Writing a story is like building a house, Jed once told me, it needs to have specific pattern and reason, a detailed set of blue prints, before you begin construction.

 I disagree.

Many authors sit around pulling their hair out for days and weeks trying to think of the next great idea that will have the critics kissing their asses. But my writing process is much simpler because I don’t recognize criticism. I couldn’t care less if my stories have a beginning, middle, and end. And many times they don’t. In some cases I haven’t even named my main characters, and, in many others I just name them after myself.

 

Despite what I’m told, my stories never begin with a plan or a theme, only with an emotion. A raw, deep-seeded, emotion. Which, for me, usually translates to abandonment, and fear. I never know when I’m going to feel it. Sometimes it’s when I wake up in the middle of the night from a fucked up dream. Sometimes it’s when I hear a stray dog yelping in the black chill of night- even when I ponder my future for too long it tears at me. I don’t always know what causes it but once I feel it’s vibration inside me I let it take control, seizing possession of my hand, spewing out the poisonous words hidden deep in the cave of my mind, my own blood as ink, as my own stories are me.

Essentially, I just write what scares the hell out of me, and that’s a good enough process for me.

I never even knew I was considered a horror writer until I saw it printed in my biography in the back of my first book. I should have expected as much though, stories devoid of hope and happy endings are rarely stacked on the same shelves as Dr. Seuss and Peter Pan. What can I say, I write from the heart.

 

After I pour myself a cup of coffee I make my way into a dimly lit room and sit in the chair farthest from the front door. On both sides of the door hang two thin drapes that don’t quite darken the entire room, small streaks of sunlight spilling on the floor. In the foyer, where there should be a small rug or a bouquet of flowers displayed for guests and family, there are none. The only decorations are the rusted silver locks and deadbolts snaking up the side of the door.

In the corner, the bubbles rising from the fish tank offer the only echo in the hollow house. Artificial seaweed rises out of the colored pebbles, flowing with the current of a cheap water cleaner. The coral caves scattered around the tank are all filled with fish, only coming out to be fed, then quickly darting back to their estranged shadowy homes.

Occasionally, when I feed them, I can’t help but wander if they’re aware that they shouldn’t be here, that they weren’t meant to exist in a three by two foot prison of glass. Sometimes I get this feeling they want to escape, to be free. In fact, I know they do. That’s why they hide away in their little fortresses all day. They hate their lives. They hate me. The only reason they even come out when they see me is because I’m the life giver, the hand that feeds, so to say.

But then other times I think they wouldn’t know what to do if they ever did get out. Maybe they know that beyond all that glass there’s no more water, no more life to breathe in. Perhaps they think they would just thrash around on the foreign cold floors until I finally let them suffocate in their new environment.

I would never allow that. At least, I don’t think I would.

The flicker of lamplight in the fish tank reminds me that I haven’t paid my electricity bill for the month. Actually, it reminds me I haven’t paid any of my bills for the month.

As I unlatch the arsenal of locks on my door and turn the doorknob, my hands begin to sweat.

 

Outside the sun trickles down through the swaying pine branches, light dripping on the fallen autumn leaves. The oceans of clouds fly by overhead,

quickly pulling away from the salty crystal sky. The heavy swells of wind uproot the dead grasses and withering flowers in the cracks of the driveway.

Before I make my way off the porch, I almost turn back, telling myself I’ll just pay the bills tomorrow. But as I start back up the steps, a glaring reflection immediately catches me in the eye.

When I extend my arm to shield my face, I notice the titanium pitcher shooting sunlight at me, and the small, blonde woman using it to water her plants. As I head back down the steps, I notice the spectrum of color pouring out of her garden, a canvas ignited with amber acacias and carmine chrysanthemums, a light crystallized lotus rooted deep in the center of the plot.

 

The woman, now resting her knees on the ground, has her hands deep in the soil, carefully pulling weeds away, one by one. The shadow from her white straw hat conceals her face, naturally illuminating the rest of her features. I notice now that her hair isn’t simply blonde, but a deep glowing gold. Her skin is white marble, pale and smooth in the sun. Her delicate figure suggests timidity, but the swift, pronounced movements of her hand suggest something else.

 

Who is this girl, I suddenly think. Why have I never met her before?

Well, probably because all you do is sit on your a*s, I tell myself.

As I open the mailbox, my hands begin to tremble. A thin layer of perspiration surfaces on my arms and neck as I attempt to push all the scattered bills and envelopes into a single pile. Fumbling with the mail, a bead of sweat catches on my eyelash, and I blink it away. My cheeks start to burn up with anxiety as the din of a pounding heartbeat hammers in my ears.

 

Sneaking a glance at her over my shoulder, I’m aware of how strange this is. How confused and unnatural it is for me to feel this way; on the verge of a panic attack simply because I want to meet this person, to approach her- perhaps even know her. Despite the crippling fear and nervousness surging through my body, I feel a strange urge to leave the safe fortress of my home for her, even though it means throwing myself back out into the world: A dangerous, foreign, oxygenless world.

 

Without even thinking, I turn from the mailbox to cross the street as I wipe the sweat of my free hand off on the side of my bathrobe…

Oh my God, am I still wearing a bathrobe? Am I about to introduce myself in BATH ROBE?

 

I immediately whip back around and thrust my envelopes back into the mailbox. I mindlessly start taking the letters out one by one, slowly shuffling through them, pretending to be looking for something while I try to collect my thoughts.

Its fine, I tell myself, it’s still early. Everyone wears a bathrobe when they get their mail in the morning, right?

At least I think that’s right..

I take a few deep breaths and unsuccessfully try to steady the wobbling in my knees.

I just need something to say to her, an opening line, I tell myself. Yes. Perfect. That’s good, an opening line….

As I begin to scrape my mind for something interesting to say- anything interesting to say, I notice a faint sound of pattering.

A faint sound of pattering, on the sidewalk- coming my way.

Footsteps. Coming my way...

 

Before the accident, when I wasn’t so scared of everything, my mom would take me on these trips. Well, maybe trip isn’t the right word because we never went much farther than a few miles away. Journey, isn’t quite right, but it’s the closest thing that comes to mind. Normally she would just drive us someplace outdoors; we didn’t even pack tents. We would just sleep out under the stars and have these incredible talks.

Looking back on it, I don’t really know how much was actually spoken. Most times we would just stare up at the sky, the clouds, and the mountains, breathing it all in. Us lying there, together, said more than words ever could...

 

When I turn around the woman is already pulling the white gardening gloves from her fingers, soil falling to the street, a smile cultivating on her face. “Hey,” she says in what sounds like a long, drawn out question. Her expression lit with confusion, or maybe curiosity, she extends her hand to me.

“I’m Alena,” she says; “glad to see someone finally moved in to that old place, pointing to my house.”

I bring my hands to my robe, quickly tucking it in where part of my chest shows.

“Oh.. Ya.” I hesitate, following the tip of finger to my house. “Well, actually, I’ve lived here for a couple years now.” I mumble.

“Really?” she asks. “I just assumed it was unfinished or maybe still on the…” her voice trailing off.

Her gaze turns from my face and slowly slides from the dead, blackening flowers to the thick weeds overtaking the last remains of the lawn, and then turning back to me. My face turning red.

“Looks like you’ve got some lawn growing in your weeds,” she says, jokingly.

“I guess that’s one way to put it,” I say, feeling relieved.

“Not all of us can have the Hanging Gardens of Babylon on display in our front yard, you know,” nodding across the street.

“Well, maybe with time and care you could. And water probably couldn’t hurt either,” she says, laughing.

“I’m pretty sure that with time and my care, those weeds won’t just be destroying my grass; they’ll be taking my whole house down with it.”

“Trust me”, she suggests.

 

Her eyes suddenly widen and glow. Raising her index finger to me, she goes back to her garden and grabs something. Hurrying back across the street, holding the titanium pitcher, she walks right by me.

Glancing back at me over her shoulder she says, “Here, I’ll show you...”

 

One of the first trips we ever took was a hiking trip up one of the mountains surrounding our apartment complex at the time. When we finally reached the peak that afternoon, we set up camp, hanging a two-person hammock from a perfect pair of pines. That night as I lay there with my mom, my first time sleeping outside, I felt so close to the sky, as if I could reach out and touch it. And if I reached out far enough, my mom told me, I could.

I remember asking her why the stars looked so funny that night. They were so much different from the five pointed stars I learned to draw in school. “It’s because we live in a world of symbols Jake,” she said. “Because most people can’t comprehend most things in their entirety, they need something simple and concrete to hold onto. They need things deconstructed and simplified-labeled and divided-you know, something tangible to hold onto.” She looked hard at the stars. “As long as they can put their faith in just one slice of truth they are still, in a way, connected to the entirety of truth.”

“Do you understand Jake,” she asked?

And I did not..

 

Alena kneels next to a small island of flowers hunched over in the sun, surrounded by a thick ocean of weeds and thorns. She pulls out the roots of every other flower, giving the others room to grow, she explains.

Moving closer, her in my shadow now, I say, “I’m Jake, by the way.”

“Well Jake,” she says, “if I didn’t know any better I’d think you didn’t actually live here.” She digs in the ground, searching to find the best soil for the remaining flowers.  “What kind of job lets you wear a bathrobe at twelve in the afternoon, anyway?”

D****t. I knew it.

 

“I write stories,” I say.

Squinting in the sun, she looks up at me, intrigued.

“Really, what do you write about?”

Deciding it’s not the smartest idea to tell her that I write horror stories for a living, I just say I write about life, I guess.

“Interesting, I didn’t think the stay at home life offered too much inspiration for life.”

I’m not sure if it’s a question or a statement. Regardless, I think about it for a minute and after a long silence: “Ya, I think maybe your right.” 

She pours what’s left of the water on the freshly compacted soil, sinking deep into the roots of the mending flowers.

“See,” she says, “just time and care.”

As she pulls her gloves off, slowly rising from the soil, I’m suddenly filled with a strange emotion. Awe? Hope? Freedom? I can’t seem to identify what it is. Dejavu maybe? All I know is that it seems familiar somehow, like something I may have felt a long time ago. No, that’s not right- because it’s not an emotion at all- it’s not that simple- it’s something that has to be experienced. Because, what I’m feeling isn’t an emotion at all, it’s a presence.

She pushes the brim of her hat up with one finger, facing me, when I get the first good look at her sky-blue eyes...

 

“Why do you think your teacher taught you to draw the stars like that?” My mother desperately wanting me to understand. I stayed silent. “It’s because, Jake, your young- we’re all young- and there’s no way your teacher could make you understand the true nature of stars. Sure, she could probably tell you what they’re made of, how far away they are, she may even be able to tell you where they came from. But is that really the same thing as understanding them?”

“Tell me, Jake, what do you know about the stars.” Well,” I say, “I know there are groups of stars that make up different constellations. Some of them even make pictures. See, look,” I say, pointing at the big dipper. My mother just looks at me and smiles. “That’s what I’m getting at,” she says. “Those pictures in the sky, they’re symbols, just as the drawing your teacher showed you is a symbol for a star. The constellations: they’re just something we’ve created to help us organize things in our mind. Because without them we would look at the sky and be utterly lost, and it’s better to have some sense of what is up there than to be in the dark, completely. Because symbols, she said,” pulling me in close. “Symbols, can help us find our way. And when you see that, you come to realize that there is only one constellation. One star. One light.”

Do you understand Jake?

And I did not..

 

Alena’s eyes. Those eyes. Those beautiful, celestial eyes. I know them- and I know her. How? How do I know her?

I take a step back, taking a closer look at her, overwhelmed by the presence.

“Are you okay?” She asks.

“Ya I’m fine, I say, I just… have we met before?”

And before she could answer, I saw it. I saw the light. I saw the light deep in those sky-blue eyes.

 

And I found myself in that light.

Except, I didn’t find myself at all.

Because I was the light.

At least, I was a part of it.

And so was Alena. Beautiful, Beautiful, Alena.

And I also found reason, and awe

And hope, and love,

And joy, and existence,

And symbols, these symbols.

All symbols. To help us understand,

To connect, to know just one truth.

And I found that too.

I found it in her eyes, in her smile,

In her name, in her skin and her hair.

I found it in the air, in the moment,

In the sky, in my tears.

I found God. And finally,

I understood.

 

 

 

 

 

Reviews

[Kaylor Mason]

This is an awesome story--I especially like your descriptive powers: "the picture frames became spiderwebs of glass"--that part was really cool. I also noticed where the writer's mother was talking about One Constellation . . . much like the homeless vagabond spoke of just One Background when he was looking at all the self-absorbed customers in the room, in your work titled "The Coffee Shop". That struck a unique chord; I don't know if I've ever come across that exact viewpoint of the world before. As far as the flow goes, I really enjoyed its ease and smoothness while the narrator was telling his story--it was a very good monologue. The story itself was pretty cool, especially how it was wrapped up at the end. I like the part where he finds meaning or Love (Or finds God, if you wish) at the end; it's like he finally comes full-circle in life, and finally finds the inspiration he needs to truly, deeply write, with every fiber of his being. This is a very good piece of penamnship.

[Crowbar]

Great story, sir. I'm a sucker for closure and after not understanding most of what his mother was talking about, "I understood" is a flawless ending. Beautiful, beautiful piece!
I noticed a few errors in your quotation mark placement. “I’m Alena,” she says; “glad to see someone finally moved in to that old place, pointing to my house.”
A few paragraphs later there are some misplaced quotes as well.
"...she may even be able to tell you where they came from. But is that really the same thing as understanding them?”
“Tell me, Jake, what do you know about the stars.” Well,” I say, [sic]
You don't need an end quote if it's the same person talking in the new paragraph. You also missed a start quote with the word "well." Your work is extremely well-written, so I'm sure they are just typos. But I want people to point out my mistakes, so that's why I do it for others. :]

[Sabrina Claridge]

Absolute beautiful piece of work. I am impressed. Loved it.

[HobbyWriter]

Money. I liked the flow, the timing of the flashbacks, and the overall message.

[Between the grey]

WOW, impressed and intrigued.
This captivated my soul.
Nicely done!