Читать книгу The Toltec Art of Life and Death - Barbara Emrys, Don Miguel Ruiz, don Miguel Ruiz Jr. - Страница 10

With my mother on her way, I can rest again, feel the infinite light, and listen to the music. I hear the songs of my youth even now, even through the haze of this dream. I hear their beat, demanding my complete attention. I hear their lyrics, the messages that describe pain and a solution to pain at the same time. I hear truth running just above the melody and somewhere beneath the words, always discreet, but always present. I belong to the music and to the life that beats within it.

It’s been a long journey through existence, a journey that started sometime before I could appreciate music—in fact, before hearing connected me to the physical world—and before I was aware of the struggles of men and women. It started before I knew anything of matter. My actual memories might have begun at the birth of my body, my initial attempts to breathe, and the sounds of my mother’s anguished cries. From there came the eventful ride from infancy to manhood, from student to master. I have traveled from pure potential to the thrill of physical being to a road-weary ending. I have gone from endless nights of lovemaking to this quiet night, with death whispering within and around me. It’s been a good life, a life of giving and receiving love without condition and beyond justification.

Love needs no justification; it is simply what we are. Men and women rarely allow themselves to feel the force of this. They know love only as a fallen symbol—a symbol meant to represent life, but one that has become corrupted by the many distortions of meaning. With the corruption of that one word, all symbols fall into confusion. Symbols grow into beliefs, and beliefs grow into petty tyrants that demand human suffering. All of this began with the fall of the first word: love.

There were many loves in my life, of course. There were always women eager to be touched, hungry to love and be loved. There were always women searching to see the truth of themselves in my eyes. In my life, I’ve loved them all. They had different faces, different names, but to me there was only one—only the fallen one, caught in a web of distortions and looking for a way back to truth. She seeks a path back to heaven even now, all the while believing the lies that keep her in hell.

Of course, she is all of us. She is Knowledge; and I can say now, without shame, that there was a time when she was Miguel. I had a good relationship with knowledge from the beginning. From my first breath, I was eager to learn the ways of sounds, symbols, and scribbled lines on paper. Like any healthy infant, I saw and heard everything. I felt in ways that adults around me had forgotten to feel. Sensation washed through me night and day, but clearly, sensation needed someone who could give testimony to its wonders. According to what I observed of the adult world around me, sensation needed a storyteller.

Feeling the flush of excitement that came with my first uttered word, and the thrill of seeing how it sent happiness racing through my parents and our friends, I was hooked. How quickly I became a devotee of words! How rapidly I used words to create a caricature of a little boy! Amazing, too, how words became the endless testimonial that is thought. In a very short time I grew exactly like those storytellers who populated my little-boy world. I happily collected assumptions and opinions, and the reward for my efforts was an incontestable identity. I knew myself well. Everyone else who knew me, knew me well, too—or so I believed.

I loved words and the universes that words created for me. I loved the power they gave me to convince other minds and change points of view. I loved the way words made it easy to romance girls and persuade knowledge-hungry boys like me. I loved the advantage that words gave me in school, both with peers and with teachers and then professors. I was always a good student. I was quick to memorize and quick to recall facts to mind. I was quick, that is, until I entered medical school. There, it seemed I had no advantage. No matter how hard I studied, how well I memorized, I could barely pass a test. My grades were poor, my temper was bad, and my self-confidence was plummeting. I wanted so much to follow in the footsteps of my brothers, but after my first semester in medical school, my prospects for a career as a doctor weren’t looking good. Things got so bad that my physiology professor approached me privately, asking why my grades failed to reflect the intelligence and enthusiasm I showed in class. I had no good answer. I told him how hard I was trying and how much energy I was putting into memorizing the material. He stopped me there. “Don’t memorize,” he said. “Use your imagination.”

This may have been the first time I heard words used in this way—to invite, rather than to convince. That professor was inviting me to break away from structure and to dream my life. He was giving me permission to experience the truth, not simply to observe the facts. My grades improved drastically after that—but, more important, the world as I knew it changed. This was the first of many steps away from knowledge, away from the compelling voice in my head. It was a small step, of course, because I was strongly bound to the laws of knowledge and, at that age, was knowledge’s greatest champion. I believed it could cure every illness and solve every problem. It defined me. I was knowledge, in all its youthful expression and tireless aggression. Without the me that was born of words and ideas, I could not exist—or so I believed.

Watching my mother make her way to the horizon and to her destination, I’m at ease. Seeing the distant tree from my present refuge among the branches of the Tree of Life, I feel only love. That tree, mirroring mine, is the symbol of knowledge—only that—and symbols have no influence on me. Now they don’t, but there was a time in my existence when I would have given anything to free myself of knowledge’s hold. I would say its power, but knowledge represents a false power, born in those exhilarating moments of infancy when language is perceived as the only path to paradise. From that first seduction, there seems only one way forward. This is simple human destiny, of course. Out of infinite light we are brought into physical being, flung into dark perplexity, and challenged to find our way back. There’s nothing that says we must burn with the same frequency of light that brought us here—but would it be so impossible? Bringing light to the obscurity caused by words is a determined choice, the path of a seeker.

My professor had asked me to dream the world from an academic point of view, but I soon discovered that dreaming is all we ever do. We imagine, and then we become. Those who are artists of the dream, whatever it may be, are artists of life. To dream means to construct reality, by whatever means available. A dog dreams the dream of a dog. A tree dreams itself in ways known only to the tree. It knows its body—every leaf and particle that makes it a universe. It knows the rejuvenating powers of sunlight, rain, and the nurturing soil. It perceives itself in relationship with all life, and it changes with the changing light, just as human bodies do. The human dream, on the other hand, adapts to changing knowledge. As human brains convert light into language, they learn to dream through words. We are gifted beyond our own understanding. Our words describe our reality. We are always dreaming, always redefining realities. In our sleeping hours, words are only the dim echoes of a waking dream, but the dreaming still continues. Like all creatures, we dream all the time. We dream an idea of who we are in relation to everything else. When other minds agree with us, we venture to call our dream truth. Depending on how we use knowledge, we can be victims or we can be responsible masters of our personal dream.

Just as I indulged knowledge so many years ago, there came a time when I had to refuse its authority. I had no cheering family then, and there was no community of humans to teach me how. I was alone, with only the ancient wisdom to comfort me. I was alone, as Sarita is now. Her journey to find me will begin in earnest in the world represented by that tree. Anyone can gather the pieces of an old dream, built by old knowledge. It takes a master to select the precious raw materials of a new and inspiring dream. This will be her challenge. She may fail or she may be victorious. Either way, Miguel will not be back. He is at home, here in the arms of eternity.

In his life as a man, he became aware of the truth of himself. Inch by inch, he slipped away from the temptations of knowledge. Ounce by ounce, he made his heart a weightless thing, emptying it of a thousand lies. The frequencies within him changed and intensified, until matter could not contain him. Revive the body, if you will, Mother. Gather the memories, bind them with faith, and let medical science do the rest. With eyes widened in excitement, see knowledge as if for the first time. Learn as you go. Be my heart in this quest, and grow lighter with every step. Do what you must. Try what you will . . . but Miguel will not be back.

Mother Sarita stood at the base of the second tree, feeling her heart battering against her chest as she gasped for breath. The tree had appeared so close, and yet the walk had seemed endless. Looking behind her, she could see the outline of Miguel’s tree against the sky. It stood in the light. This one did not. Being a wise woman, she recognized obscurity for what it was. There was no evil here, only the absence of something. No, not absence: scarcity. Light was everywhere, and existed in all things, but light was not entirely welcome in this spot. The ethereal glow that flooded the surrounding landscape met resistance here. What had her son told her? He had said that she should put her trust in an impostor. She had no opinion about impostors. She had a job to do, and she would accept any help, in any form.

She took a deep, painful breath and felt her heart slow its pace. She had emptied the contents of her bag, but she felt the physical strain anyway. Strange, that this illusion should weigh so heavily on the physical senses. She was certain that, in the living room of her home, her heart was pounding in just this way. It might be that her sons were anxious for her, and that this trance state was frightening her grandchildren, but she could not stop now. She must keep going. She took another deep breath and tried to relax the muscles in her face, hoping that a calm expression might reassure her family as they watched her at home and wondered.

Seeing nothing in the branches of this tree but shadows and deceptions, she took a seat on a huge root that had broken above ground in one spot, arching like a cat that waits for a human touch. Just as she sat upon it, she sensed movement, deep among the branches of the tree. She remained still, pulling a handkerchief from her pocket and dabbing her face with slow precision. She sighed audibly and waited.

“Welcome.”

The voice was silky and soft, but shocking all the same. It was both kind and cautious. It invited, and yet penetrated her thoughts. Its tone was sweet, but its message unyielding. With one word, it opened worlds. It was much like the voice of her son.

“Miguel?” she asked tentatively, her voice quivering. Was he in two places at the same time? What was this game of his, this dream of reflections? She worried that the ancestors might not approve, and she would need them before this excursion was over. Sarita stayed where she was, unsure where to look for the speaker, since the voice seemed to come from all places at once.

“You have made yourself comfortable,” the voice declared.

“I am quite uncomfortable, as anyone could imagine,” the old woman said, folding her damp handkerchief. “I doubt I could be less comfortable, but it is of no consequence, as I will be gone from here soon.” From the corner of one eye she could see something slip smoothly from behind the trunk of the tree, not more than six feet away from where she sat.

“Oh?” said the voice with interest. “Where are you going?”

“I was told that you know better than I where I’m going.” Sarita had an uneasy feeling that she was losing control over this trance. She had willed herself into her son’s fevered dreams as a desperate resort and was now feeling the danger of it. Whatever risks she must confront, she knew she could reach him. She knew he would respond to her. She knew many things, but she did not know what she was facing at this moment. “Is it true that you know . . . well, that you know—” she faltered, unsure how to finish.

“I know everything,” the voice said pleasantly. “Yes, I know everything.”

Sarita was overcome by the feeling that this was no longer her son’s dream; nor was it hers. This was an old, old dream, long repressed in human memory. This had the look of an ancient dream, one where a snake edged close and whispered softly. She could still see the familiar planet in the sky, brightly lit, with wispy dreams breathing in and out from its fiery heart . . . but there was little here that pulsed with life. The tree loomed beside her, but it seemed not to breathe. This was a dimmer sort of dream.

Sarita jammed the folded lace into her pocket, determined to make this vision hers to command. She would stand up and face what she had come to face. Her body obeyed, and she was on her feet in an instant, her expression grim and her heart pounding harder than ever. What she confronted was wholly unexpected. There in front of her, lurking in the ponderous shade of this tree, stood a beautiful young woman, clothed in a simple dress.

“Ah!” Sarita exclaimed, not disguising her relief. “Good. Since you know so much, perhaps you can tell me how to return my youngest son to the living.”

“He is deceased?” the woman asked, seeming both surprised and sympathetic.

“He is not. He remains in that tree over there, dreaming of eternity.” Sarita turned, pointing to life’s symbol standing grandly on the distant horizon. “I will not let him die until . . . until he is finished.”

She turned back to her new acquaintance, only to find that the young woman had moved swiftly and silently out of the shadows and now stared at the other tree with fascination. Her chest rose and fell in excitement, and her deep-red hair flowed behind her, as if caught in a sudden wind. This was not just any woman, Sarita realized with alarm. This was a magical creature, filled with power. She resembled the woman Sarita had once been but could barely remember—a sorceress, who held life in the palm of her hand and kept death serenely at her feet. Before Sarita understood just what she was seeing, the young woman had turned back to her and was staring directly into her eyes.

“Finished?” she asked sharply. “You say he has not yet finished?”

“What?” Sarita stammered in confusion. How could this creature help her recover her son? What could she know of him? “No,” she replied, suppressing her bewilderment. “He has not finished. He has not completed his work.”

“What work is that?”

Such nonsense! Sarita marveled at the creature’s ignorance, but felt a growing satisfaction that she had recovered her advantage. Miguel must continue to travel, to commune, and to merge with Earth herself. This was obvious. He was a messenger. He was meant to do this and many other things. His dream was growing, expanding, and it must not end now.

“He has not yet finished his work with the Mother of us all,” Sarita stated.

“She is no mother of mine,” the woman said distractedly.

“He has not finished sharing his wisdom, giving generously—”

“Giving to whom? To you?”

“To the world! He has not finished being the messenger he was meant to—”

“He has not finished being your attentive son, you mean.”

“He has not finished being . . . what he is!”

The vision moved noiselessly toward her, breathing cool breath onto the old woman’s face.

“Is he not one hundred percent what he is?”

“Can you help me or not?” Sarita snapped, exasperated. “I will have him back with me . . . with the world.”

The lovely creature took in a quick breath and leaned toward the old woman, inspecting her carefully. “You require my help?” was all she said.

“I desire your knowledge.”

Another breath. This time the sound of it hissed under the flare of lightning in the dimming sky. Her eyes flashed red, and then the softest blue, as the woman laughed, her hair tossing in that strange wind of feeling that only she seemed to arouse.

“And to think,” she hissed again, “looking at you, one might have suspected trouble! You are no trouble at all. You are a kindred, vieja. You are my likeness, my sister, and you are welcome here with me. If knowledge is what you desire, I will immerse you in it!”

“You may call me Mother Sarita, as I am your elder. Do you have a name?”

“I, too, am old. Older than you, Sara. . . . Sara,” the creature pronounced carefully, enjoying the sound of it—an ancient name with sacred roots. She paused to study the old woman’s face. “Sara,” she whispered again. “Impressive name, and well deserved. For this occasion, I shall take a name that reflects me well.”

Sarita waited, contemplating the list of things humanity had called this one through the millennia, sacred names and obscene names.

“What to call me?” the beautiful woman wondered aloud. “And in which delicious language? Your language?” Her face took on a look of worry, then amusement, then resolution. “Call me La Vida.” She glanced quickly at the tree on the horizon, and a grin transformed her.

“Ah, yes,” breathed the old woman. “Life.” It seems the creature had ambitions beyond her scope.

“Or . . . perhaps not that. I think I prefer La Luz.”

La Luz? This, too, seemed wishful thinking. There was little enough light in this corner. Sarita nodded agreeably. “Of course.”

“No,” the woman corrected herself. “La Verdad. Call me that.”

“As you say,” Sarita shook her head as she moved to retrieve her bag.

“Wait!” The vision spun in place, the hem of her dress stirring ash where she stood. “The name must be grand! Romantic! Call me La Diosa!”

Yes, of course, thought Sarita. Why not call yourself a god while you stand in your own proud world of delusions? She remembered being told once of a popular nightclub in Guadalajara by that name, where women shamed themselves dancing on the stage half-naked. The picture amused her.

“You make me dizzy,” Sarita said, sighing. “La-this. La-that. La-la-la.” Imagining the naked women in the strip club, she felt the impulse to play with this arrogant creature. “Could you not simply be Lala? It has flash.” The redhead turned to stare at her. Sarita hesitated, fearing that she had caused offense. “That is to say, it speaks of both light and liveliness,” she amended.

“I am La Diosa,” the woman stated with finality, and then forced a smile. “As we are sisters in this cause, I suppose I could allow you to call me . . . some lively thing.”

“Good. Then where do we start, Lala? Should I prepare myself?”

“Stay as you are, dear,” she urged. “Let us call on memory, that prince of truth, to lay a path for us!”

“But memory—”

“I know everything,” Lala interrupted. “Remember that. Doubt me, and we have nothing—nothing but light and motion and . . . and fragile buds on an unnamed tree.”

Sarita tried to remember precisely what Miguel had said about memory, but could not. Before she had time to consider what might be wrong with buds on a tree, her companion had moved toward her, swiftly, soundlessly, and was gazing deep into her eyes again.

“The resurrection of a dream,” she stated solemnly.

“The return of my son,” Sarita corrected.

“This is felicitous,” the woman murmured. “The solution lies within my realm of understanding.” She held her piercing gaze. “You were clever to seek me out.”

“Well, as it happens—” Sarita began, but Lala was still talking, still staring.

“Be sure you are respectful.”

“Yes?”

“Be mindful of my unique skills, my ways, and my laws. Listen to me.”

Listen, but don’t believe, Sarita reminded herself.

“Listen, and obey,” Lala added.

Sarita was resolved to remain in this remote terrain, regardless of the company. She must linger here until her son could be swayed. “Of course,” she answered demurely. “How do we begin?”

The creature brightened at the question. “How. Yes.” She smiled. “How, what, and why. There is no progress without these things.” She moved away from Sarita, apparently thinking. Sarita watched her and waited.

“We begin with the first memory,” Lala announced suddenly, “and move on from there.” She glanced at the old woman. “You brought a shopping bag,” she said. “You must have anticipated this.”

Sarita looked at the bag, dumbfounded. Was it going to hold memories, then? Was this to be among her mysterious instructions? She wanted to laugh, but kept her silence.

“With enough memories, we have a dream—a talking picture show of all that is true about a man. I will guide you through the memorable scenes, through each crucial bit of knowledge, and in time we will have gathered all the pieces necessary to solve the puzzle called . . . Miguel.” Lala’s voice held on to the last syllable of his name as a bow glides along the strings of a violin, letting the sound fade slowly, melodically, into silence. Miguel: the word seemed to conjure images of something familiar, something sorely missed. The air around them stirred slightly, bringing with it a hint of warmth and sound.

“We have very little time, madam,” Sarita said emphatically, breaking the spell of the moment.

“Time is my creation,” was Lala’s response. “We have as much of it as I say.” With that, she took the old woman’s hand and gently helped her back upon the giant root.

Sarita, her hand still in Lala’s, thought she heard the faraway patter of rain, but the sky had not changed. Clouds still billowed and streamed; lightning still flashed in the distance, its force reverberating through her body, but no thunder followed. She felt the woman squeeze her hand. Lala stood very still above her, her gaze fixed somewhere in the distance.

She was looking, Sarita saw, toward the Tree of Life, and her face held a curious expression. It was one of fierce anger and deep longing. It was definitely both, although Sarita knew that such feelings did not exist together in the natural world. The old woman looked at the place she had last seen her son, and wondered if she should have respected his wishes this time and let him be. That was something she had rarely done, but now . . .

Lala suddenly let go of her hand. As Sarita looked back at her in surprise, the darkness fell over them both, pierced only by a single, soft light. It was candlelight.

Sarita was no longer sitting under a tree in a vast and desolate landscape. She sat on an ordinary wooden chair in the corner of a small room, watching a man and a woman making love by the light of a single candle set in a fruit jar.