by John Young
cava
Pat, retired, owner for several months of a quiet village cottage and
still adjusting to life after her husband’s long illness and death, takes her
usual seat on a rock in front of a twelve feet high monolith which the locals
refer to as the ‘Guardian Stone’ or simply ‘The Guardian’. None of her
neighbours are clear as to why it bears that name though it is vaguely
suggested that its position on a hill overlooking the village invites
comparison to a vigilant sentry.
To satisfy the curiosity of villagers she has
explained her frequent visits to the stone with various references to her
health. ‘Climbing up the hill is good exercise; it strengthens my legs.’ Or: ‘It’s
good for my lungs.’ Or: ‘I’m trying to make up for years of inactivity.’ Sometimes she would, in a distant and very
brief way, hint at a desire to put behind her the turbulence of previous years.
‘My husband had a difficult time before he died.’ Or: ‘It’s such a peaceful
contrast to the commotion of town life and hectic years in a busy office.’
Most of her neighbours, warming to her
obvious love of her cottage now embraced by its daffodil carpeted garden, and
to her cheerful but unobtrusive involvement in various village activities,
quickly accepted these explanations at face value and avoided any attempt to
gain a deeper understanding of her attraction to the stone.
Her frequent walks to the monolith did
however attract passing interest from an elderly somewhat eccentric neighbour
called Paul, regarded by local farmers as a very reliable water dowser. ‘Earth
energy lines and underground streams intersect thereabouts,’ he said, glancing
in the direction of the monolith. Then he paused for a moment looking at her
with a curious eye. ‘Sensitive folk can pick up things in spots like that’.
Not wishing to be drawn into discussion about
what she may or may not be experiencing she merely nodded and replied in a
casual manner. ‘I love the tranquillity of the place.’
The real reasons for her frequent trips to
the Guardian she does not for an instant feel the need to disclose, that she
purchased the cottage because of a chance visit to the spot; that the
‘presence’ - the heavy but peaceful stillness - which she enjoys around the
monolith, reminds her of fleeting episodes of happy tranquillity during the
stress-filled months of her husband’s painful decline. At the time, these
moments racked her conscience, but not to the point of entirely extinguishing
the conviction that ‘something’ was experienced - a form of awareness - which
should have a valuable and permanent place in her life.
‘Presence!’ She feels uncomfortable using
this word. Too spooky by half! she thinks. Considering herself to be a
very practical down-to-earth person she studiously avoids mystical speculations
or dwelling on her neighbour’s theories about ley lines. She contents herself
with the judgement that many places - churches, buildings even towns - have
what she refers to as a ‘feel’, some pleasant some less so. ‘Presence?' Just
a more intense, more focussed version of an everyday experience, she thinks.
Anything else? Just a distraction!
‘A feeling?’ A lens? A
prompt? Or maybe a teaching aid helping me to get a gentle grip on this
experience. The spot around the stone is her classroom. Or is it my
nursery, my playroom, my inside-my-head workshop?
Today, as usual she takes a seat on a
convenient rock in front of the monolith. Allowing her gaze to flit across its
surface she searches for the means to articulate, or, as she wants to describe
it ‘to fit’ the special experience that she wants to recall and
recapture.
‘Nothing coming, ‘she mutters after several
minutes. She tries to control her frustration. Suddenly she feels bored. Not
in the right frame of mind! Not at all! She wants to be active. Things
to do in the garden, she thinks and readies herself for the walk back down
to the village.
Then a thought, seemingly haphazard, drifts
into her consciousness and she glances again at the monolith. Wonder
what the view looks like from the top of the Guardian? A further thought
quickens then congeals, carrying with it an ill-defined sense of certainty. Above!
For some reason, the small word seems to be important.
‘Seeing things from above!’ she whispers. Her
perception of her surroundings suddenly shifts - her experience of the world is
reorganised. For a vivid instant, no more than that, the separation of her
inner self and the world is replaced by an exhilarating sense of immersion in a
broad sea of consciousness, in which she is only a part. But then as she
attempts to grasp the shifting kaleidoscope of vibrant experiences the normal
pattern of her reality abruptly reasserts itself.
Normal? What’s
that? she thinks. Me! Looking at the world out there. Just like
looking through a window. Me ... trapped in my head.
She breathes deeply, attempting to calm
herself. ‘Seeing things from above,’ she repeats. ‘From above! Not striving,
participating. No inside, not outside! No self! Just being aware. Only
that.’ Once again, her perception of the world seems to tilt and then, as
before, in an instant, her ‘normal self’ reasserts itself.
As she heads down the hill towards the
village, she is grasped by the conviction that she can ‘be’ in the world, can
see the world, can experience and encounter life, in two distinct ways. ‘It’s
basically a gestalt thing,’ she murmurs, chuckling at the simplicity of the
discovery. ‘Now you see two faces in profile. Now you see a vase. Now I
am the usual me; now I am part of ...’ Words are not necessary, she decides.
Her new experience is special - very special, very precious - but at the same
time is not special at all: just an alternative, everyday way of being in the
world.
