I’ve been busy visiting and traveling - and have much to write about, and pictures of places I’ve been to share. But today I wish to write a very special story, the introduction to a much longer, quite involved detective/high adventure/inspiring love story, my newest novel. Beginning the night before last, I took the 24 hour Amtrak from San Jose to Seattle, and for breakfast the first morning I sat across from a lovely couple. He was 78, full of quips, and she . . . well she just held this space of interest and compassion . . . looked young for her age, though I didn’t ask, fifty years of marriage suggested somewhere over seventy. She still works as a hospice nurse, and has blessed the souls of the now departed during many, many passings. She told me that she was known as the Death Whisperer. She knew, could feel and sense when it was time to go. Later we sat in the coach lounge and I shared with her the introduction to my novel Shambala. She was nearly moved to tears, said this is really how it is. I felt as though I was gifted with the blessings of the Death Whisperer.
Shambala
Introduction
I suppose, not wanting to confuse, I should start at the end, which is really the beginning, which is the story of the hour of my passing.
I was old. Eighty years old. After twenty-nine thousand moons I welcomed death, even though I entertained no good reason besides old age to suggest it. Still, it pulled me to itself . . . until finally . . . a stroke took me by surprise. In physical weakness, with mental and spiritual resignation, I was ready, stood most willingly at the tunnel entrance, waiting for the passage light, when, for reasons I didn’t then understand, that door closed; the passing was postponed. My entire being was suddenly shrouded in stillness. Starting in Capricorn - the days to Cancer were lost in coma, in the almost certain dark curtain of death.
They said it would all end that still dark day in July; the monitors said so, the doctors knew.
A single candle flickered. Bodies huddled. Hushed. It was one a.m. the morning of my anticipated death. The silence sounded like the voice of the white light speaking, reminding me of how vulnerable I was, how ready I was, lying there open - to the consummation to my eminent passing - to the ultimate answer to the question of when I would die.
Buddha sat serene, surrounded by lilies, white carnations and appropriate passing flowers, silently watching me, patiently waiting. He knew what they didn’t. He answered the koan of the sound of one hand clapping.
That sound . . . the sound of their tears . . . woke me. I listened. Surprised I could. I listened to the tears, which turned to whispers, the short dialogue of the deaf, the muted hushes of dying crying; the surrendering to death, my death. They mumbled their prayers. Prayers for what? Prayers for maybe a few more days, hours, moments? Yes, moments. For one more opportunity to say what I maybe hadn’t heard, words they knew, thought, I couldn’t hear.
I gathered the whispers: “wake up. don’t go. Please don’t go.” Followed by my inner voice; my still small unspoken whisper saying: You can get up. You do have more life to live. You can go home.
Home? What home? I thought death was my only way home.
Dried tears stained the floor. A forever moment. The room dissolved to silence.
Golden flame, white candle light glow - they watched my shadow flicker on the wailing wall, anticipated the ghostly gray reaping, floating spirit, gone; my slip from the dark coma, through the tunnel and beyond. What they didn’t, couldn’t see, was me that night, returning, black to gray to white, to life once more.
I wasn’t ready to speak. I couldn’t make myself, or at least wouldn’t, animate. I stared an uncomfortable goodnight. The hushed huddle moved closer. Kisses on my forehead, hands on my heart. Goodnight, they said. Maybe . . . forever . . . goodbye. Yes, they thought, forever goodbye.
They left me then, there, unconscious, not yet dead, still in coma, they thought. Yet I was . . . conscious, and quite alive. Lying there, I stole a peek around. Alone, I stretched like a great cat, purring quietly for only me to hear, my sound once more. Listening, asking for permission - from who? from myself? - permission - is it right for me? - to enter back into life. The stretch proved, a deep inhale proved, I could choose that, it was alright to choose to return. And yet, I was still so very tired, and wasn’t sure at that moment what I really wanted.
Turning my head, I stared at the candle light. The golden flame. My eyes suddenly reached into it; merged with it. They, my eyes, caught on fire, blazing out of control. Two flames shot out of the sockets; burning, boring holes through the darkness of death, giving me a new vision, allowing me to see, yes, I saw, remembered, accepted what I had forever been denying. It was then I knew what I wanted. More than death, I wished to return to Shambala.
Present day:
Pulled from death’s door, reincarnated into life again at eighty, my denial, yes my fears and excuses, however cleaver they were, are now gone. I have remembered how to breathe. It is time to embrace life, to return to and celebrate the gift which was ceremoniously given to me so many, many years ago; a gift which I never really did or could or will forget. Today, right now, I will begin . . . my journey home.
Shambala - Copyright 2010 David Dakan Allison All Rights Reserved
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