Читать книгу Opening the Door: Jan Frazier Teachings On Awakening - Jan Inc. Frazier - Страница 14

I hadn’t been home in a long time, so long I had no memory of having been there at all, at least not till I got there and knew it was familiar. So familiar, in fact, that I couldn’t believe I could ever have forgotten it. How could this be? So dear it felt, like the most precious thing ever created, and yet all my life I hadn’t been walking around with a memory of it, or even a sense of missing something.

Not home as in brick and mortar, no slab or walls with a door and a roof, but home like a knowing, like pure seeing, like what might be called God if it weren’t so worn out a word, and why do you think there ever came to be such a word as that — God? Because somebody knew, somebody sensed it, that dirt and sky had something in common, and they had the same thing in common with the names for things and with the colors of things, and the same thing in common with air and with the absence of air, and the same thing in common with what gets called evil. What? How could this be, all of it home, all of it what gets called God? Not God the father. God the dirt, God the blood vessel, God the spool of thread, God the slither of spaghetti.

When I arrived back home, this is what I knew, all of this. Only I had no words for it. I only felt it, in the body felt it. I had no explanation, no theory, no way to account for it. All I could say was, nothing would ever be wrong again. Nothing would ever be wrong again. Nothing ever had been wrong, only I didn’t know it.

But now I knew it. But even knowing that was incidental. Knowing about it was around the edges. It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered.

But what I’m trying to tell you (here the madwoman reaches across the table, nearly knocking her glass over, grabbing the shirt of whoever is sitting there), what I mean to get you to see is — this was home, it was familiar, it was known to me, since all the way back to forever, and I couldn’t get over it, how it could feel so natural and right, so not-scary, to suddenly have every single solitary thing be so . . . strange. So unutterably sweet.

And then I had the sense that I’d been right close to it, to this home thing, all my life but just not known it, like it was on the other side of this tissue papery wall running all down the length of every bit of my experience. Like in the movie Rabbit-Proof Fence, only the tissue paper was invisible and infinitely rupturable, the whole time all ready to be ripped, to have the whole home thing come flooding in, taking over, obliterating my whole prior understanding of what life was and how it operated. If only I’d known about the tissue paper wall, and had some inkling of what might have been on the other side.

And what happened? How did it go? Something put a match to it. It was gone, just gone. I didn’t even notice it happening. I wasn’t myself anymore. I didn’t tick the way I had. Nothing was the same, and yet everything was deeply familiar. Like I had been in heaven all along, only I didn’t know it.