A long Short Story

The morning is stiff and cold. Waking up is difficult, as usual, but the sun peaking over the mountain tops helps. It’s as if she’s prying your mind out of the cold dead fingers of the night. Slowly, with the languid tendrils of alertness creeping up the bed and into my mind, I sit up, breathe so deep my lungs strain against my ribcage, and extend my arms above me and feel the blood flow down my arms and into my chest, bringing fresh life and vitality to my soul. I collapse suddenly into the fluffy sea of blankets surrounding me and turn my smiling face to the rising sun. I can feel the sunshine on my dry skin, warming up my soul, thawing my mind. The day has begun.
The soft, pungent vapors of freshly brewed mate waft delicately around the house. All begin to stir. Soon the house will be full of bustling excitement and clanging noises, but for now, silence still coats the dewy air like the patterned film of frost that has decided to doom the strawberries one final time. This silence is my sanity. In this moment I can find myself. I can keep my identity, my solace wrapped firmly around my intellect. I step outside with my gourd full of mate and sip slowly, delighting in the warmth trickling down my throat and awakening my belly. Staring out, my eyes seek no specifics, simply wandering, alighting on whatever they will. They encounter mountains. Stunning, majestic, daunting, these mountains encase my home. They protect it, shelter it, love it, and in return I love them. I gaze every morning, not once passing them by. If your mind is in the right setting, you can stare and feel eternity inside you, you can feel humanity and nature, you can feel the perfection of our imperfections. You can understand. But then material life jerks you back, and the dogs are barking, the goats…bleating, the people flit and flutter and chatter, reminding you of that human to human connection you so need. Meditation is over.
Sublime’s “Garden Grove” begins blasting in the garden, and we all gather that one communal room and pass a joint or two around the circle. Then, then the work begins. We revel in it. It is the work of our survival, of our souls. The various chores that must be done every day take most of the morning. Then we all break off into our own activities. It’s all highly coordinated and complex. Crystal and Nico dive into the shop to create some beautiful glasswork; Nico is making a replacement pipe for Quinn, who broke hers last week and Crystal is making a beautiful pendent inspired by the change of the seasons. We can all feel autumn in our bones. We can feel the cold seeping into our minds, freezing there till next spring. It’s about that time to make that cosmic connection. Indica and Jasmine, always the precognitive bunch, decide to take a trek up to the Basin and welcome in the new season. They’ll return in the evening with bags full of osha root and mushrooms. Others are gardening, working on the charts, seeing what should be harvested, what should be watered and weeded and tended. Some work in the greenhouse, sweating and laughing, having a good time. Another day on the farm.
I finish my morning chores in a smoky haze. Time moves slowly, but my hands move with a certain alacrity that comes only from much practice and passion. I retreat into my room for a tad to look at our finances and paint a little. Then I went and picked some lunch for everyone. Cous cous with stir-fried veggies and a huge green salad; the staple of my diet. Cleaned up, changed clothes, and ventured out into town.
The day progressed absurdly normally from then on. Nothing too exceptional except the exceptionally stunning series of moments that make up a day. But something was in the air. It was the shift to autumn to be sure, but there was something more. Something ethereal and sublime and subtle. It was a coming, a shiver on the horizon, present and tangible, but still removed. I don’t have to wait long until my intuition is answered, because my phone breaks my concentration with that penetrating beep that signifies someone, somewhere, is trying to flag down your attention.
The screen flashes open, and shoot’s me with an arrow-full of excitement by spewing forth the following words:
Found some dank boomies on our walk today. Are you down for some questage this afternoon? I’m getting that itch to expand my mind. Miles and Meghan are stoked on it. Let me know!
Right, ok, so it’s not the succinct translation that you may excpect to bleep up on my cell, but the significance needs some eloquence. Mushroom Festival has left us some prime psychadelics, and the inkling of winter is begging us to welcome in the falling leaves. The sun is shining like no other, though the rain this morning has left the air crisp, damp and pungent. My eyes scrape over the landscape and quickly look down to the fluorescent portal. My highly adept fingers pitter-patter away a sufficient response:
Time’s just right. Start the mental/physical preparation and we’ll be all ready in 3 hours? Meet at the house in 20.
Right, well the rest of the day needs no description. I get my shit together, converge with my crew, and march off into the woods to begin the extravaganza. Reveling in nature quickly puts me into a trance, and my mind leaves for a while to places I can’t even describe. When I come back, the scent of decomposing leaves drying in the Indian summer sun flows up my nostrils and the sunshine warms my eyelids.
I take a deep, satisfied breath and fall back on the green, soft grass. I lay there for a moment, taking life as it comes, watching it flow through me. From deep inside that stream a feeling begins to surface, a complete contentedness. Such an intense satisfaction with life slowly rises from the recesses of my soul and encompasses my entire being. It’s not threatening, nor too fast. Lying there I feel happy. But it’s not just any happy; it’s a happiness that seeps through your mind, that twinkles through your fingertips, that floods your voice and sparks your eyes. This happiness manifests itself in my eyes. It sits, like a cool, smooth weight, at the back of the expansive chasm of my sight. Maybe this big ball of bliss is filtering my reality, or maybe it’s slowly percolating into the world. My eyes, which have been closed, slide slowly open, and are greeted by the most lovely sight. The sky is that blue. You know the one I’m talking about. It’s the deepest most complex and stunning color. It’s that clear, clear blue that you might find alight on a high alpine lake, it’s that blue that only comes when the day has decided to be just too beautiful to understand. My head lolls sedately to each side, searching the vast horizon for a hint of imperfection, for a tiny inkling of the condensed air and water that taints our benevolent blue.
None can be found. I search a little harder; move my head with a tad more alacrity than is necessary and my face rolls smoothly over the flattened blades of grass, like a smooth marble statue pushed of its pedestal and into the commons surrounding it. The green of this grass is less excited than the blue of the sky, but it is nonetheless breathtaking and life-hanging all in one motion. One advantage that the grass has in this great game for my attention is that I can touch it. And I do; I reach my hand out slowly and run my quivering fingertips over the moist tendrils. Miniature explosions ignite as every one of my atoms clashes against the atoms of this grass. What is it that separates us? How can I not simply reach out my willing hand and become one with this tiny specimen of a different kind of life? What is that barrier? What is this barrier that creates interaction and prohibits fusion? Maybe these questions are not important, but they wander aimlessly through my mind anyways. Maybe it’s better to live and not question, to simply enjoy and marvel, not to ponder and explore. Maybe that would provide a more tangible life. Maybe that would induce more temporal pleasure. But I cannot place one over the other. I cannot place my desire for oneness above my need for collision with the ‘real world’ that I perceive. That is the balance, between spiritual, other-worldly, and physical, carnal and earthly. Find this balance in my soul. The pendulum may sway one way or the other from time to time, but it somehow remains still. It remains taught, perched precariously between the two sides of myself. Maybe, maybe, maybe.
My thoughts drift and drain away as my vision quietly factures, ruptures and convulses. Spears of white, rainbowed light burst from that absolute, pure blue. This light washes around me, pricks my mind, and flows through everything simultaneously. The prisms dance and twist and contort around the horizon and squiggle through the grass.
This spectacular performance keeps me continuosly captivated for a timeless eternity. Dancing and swirling, the lights show me the way of the world; they bless each notion inside my head with good karma and grace.
Suddenly I remember that it’s market day tomorrow. My separate, secret world evaporates right before my eyes, and reality comes floating down, much less aggressive, much less tiresome than before. I stretch every fiber of my being once more, then jump up, and head on my way. Walking down the gravel path, I feel a prickle slip up my spine, urging my neck to turn back. I oblige and my colorful, beautiful world fills me for the last time. A small, coy smile splits my face, I turn, and march off.