Down into the depths of the ocean, I ride the Manta – she having met Whale at its lowest dive and transferring and transitioning me… not only transportation-wise, but also breathing style, in order to go so much deeper. Manta is concerned about the depths I seek, even though we’ve been down to a volcanic vent before. This particular vent that I’m journeying toward is off the Ridge, and much deeper. She provides me with a soft harness – not because of turbulence, but of the unexpected encounters of the denizens here, and the invisible geysers that sometimes spout indigo bubbles very forcefully. We dive farther and farther down, and then coast for awhile.
It is incredibly dark, and I have to slow my breathing to manage the pressure of the environment. After a while, as my senses begin to adjust, I realize it isn’t a total blackness or void; it is something way more awesome. A deep cobalt-blue – not quite black – glows about me. There are quiet songs, unlike anything I have ever heard – lilting tunes, staccato tones in mysterious rhythms, and a variety of sentient songs, like found in the deepest parts of the rain forest – away from all human technology and touch. Of course, it would be my ears that adjust first – they are the more sensitive. As I re-focus on the sense of tangibility, I feel the slow, strong current that moves even in the seeming stillness and depth. Then I can feel tiny movements, wakes, trails, all around me – brushing by in purpose or curiosity. There is a saline quality to the water, but it tastes of life, and is not overpowering. I am free to explore the physical and energy interactions as the Manta holds me steady, gliding through the ‘air’ smoothly and calmly, inspiring that kind of trust from me. I sense her shift, and a slight banking, as she begins to spiral over a huge expanse of even darker water, as the ocean floor drops precipitously before us.
“Here,” she says. “Here is where you need to go.”
“Where?” I ask, pondering the ‘where’ she would have me ‘go’.
“Here, on the ledge, you will meet your new ally. I cannot go deeper. Hop off, and sit on that boulder. Wait patiently. Do not doze.”
And she says these things as if I were dismounting a horse by the edge of a canyon, to sit on a sunny boulder.
“Yes. Of course. It’s all your own perspective and limitations anyway. And, it keeps you alive not to dwell too much on where you really are.”
And then she flew back off the way we had come.
I sit there for quite some time, using this opportunity to acclimate and transition even more. As I peer over the edge for the longest time, I finally begin to see tiny tiny sparklies and vague nebulas glowing and flowing far far down. I imagine it’s like sitting on the edge of the Voyager as it cruises the constellar galaxies of space. Pastel luminescence of all colors etch the dark abyss. There is life here! And I know if I can see it, then I must be hearing it also at some level. And so I close my eyes.
Sure enough. At the edge of the meadows of my mind, soft stirrings, musical whisperings, a subtle symphonic expression so exquisitely gentle on my energy, on my ears, on my heart, I can hardly bear it. God is surely in this place! The songs, the music, draw through my energy as if a soft caress of a spring breeze on a new rose budding early in the morning with just the slightest touch of sun across its petals. Enough to bring tears to my eyes and soul. What intimacy is this, that embraces me, and I do not cringe or shift or block?
Ah, I cannot tell. It is beyond words.
I linger forever in the moment.
Suddenly, I hear a ting-ting-tinging sound, running around the outside of my energy field like some yappy puppy-dog. Slowly, I open my eyes. What I see is as unlike a dog as is possible to imagine, and yet the behavior nevertheless still reflects one. It is a glowing silhouette of big teeth and little else, about the size of a Chihuahua, with an antenna instead of a tail, on the end of which is a lighted orb. The colors of its luminescence seem to shift through the entire spectrum randomly and constantly, although once – as if throwing a switch – all the luminescence ‘shut off’, and only the little bouncing ball of light at the end of the antenna can be seen. I imagine that’s how it captures food to eat. After I begin to get used to its presence, I am more able to discriminate between the ‘tings’ – their frequency, tone, inflection, and pattern: its way of communicating. Then I watch more closely its movements, and start noticing – after it had gotten my attention – that it is ‘racing’ from me to the very edge, or rather, just past the edge, of the place where I am sitting. Finally, I stand up and get as close as possible – without falling off.
Right close to the ‘wall’ of this ledge, a patterned set of lights is drawing near. The patterning of the lights resembles a rectangle, as if the lights are illuminating the edge of a carpet, undulating in its movement upward to where I am.
The Ting-let (as I call the dog thing) seems to be conversing with this living carpet of lights, and feels more excited as it nears. Finally, it lays even with the ledge where I stand. As I focus more clearly on it, I can see that the texture of the ‘carpet’ within the lighted boundary seems a more solid form of water, like what Plexiglas may appear as in a more fluid state. Ok, there aren’t words for this either. Maybe the ‘carpet’ is more like a watery membrane, for it surely is sentient – alive and patiently waiting for me. Waiting for me to step off a ledge – who knows how many miles deep, into a substance so transparent as to almost seem not there. The only clue to its presence is the subtlest tinge of pastel lavender that pulses through it as it floats and hovers near me.
The Ting-let keeps badgering me to get moving – to step onto the ‘carpet’, as if it were the open palm of the Ocean herself. Perceiving it this way allows my mind to release its reservations and resistance, and I step onto this sea-woven Tapestry, and feel her begin to move.
As I sit down upon the Tapestry, the Ting-let positions itself at the ‘front’, sitting like a point-guard, staring directly ahead and not moving. We glide softly into the dark depths, gradually – very gradually – descending.
I ask, “Where are we going?”
And She (the Tapestry) responds, “Not where; when.”
Feeling my instant fear, She lightly says, “Not to fear, Child, we go to a far different time in a far different place.”
I think about lying down, but realize that I will not be able to see as well, and stay sitting. As we go deeper, it begins to be difficult to tell if I am in the ocean or deepest space.
“So you notice this; good.”
“Are we then in space? Are those stars?”
“Does it matter?”
“No, M’am.”
She chuckles. “You need not call me that… I am no more or less than you.”
I look around, squinting, and feel like I am indeed in deepest space, seeing comets and grand galaxies and other solar systems, although none are near where we travel. But I cannot be sure. I cannot tell if or when we may have passed through a veil; it is a bit disconcerting, but does not concern me long. I am more curious about what will unfold before me. In my mind, I see images of birthing: human, cat, dog – and it is difficult for me to watch. She knows this. All I hear in my mind are old messages of “dirty, filthy, ungodly, demonspawn, yucky, puky, stuff”… and I know who says these things, and know as well that it wasn’t only him. And all these messages interfere in my paying attention to what She is saying and showing to me. She pauses.
“When you write poetry, the poem is like a baby being born. It is of you, but it is not you. It is sacred, as you are sacred. Babies are like that, too.”
Next thing I know, the whole landscape has changed.
I’m in a hut, somewhere in the sub-Saharan desert, and there’s a woman giving birth right there in front of me – you know… like I’m watching it happen; no, not watching, participating… I mean, I’d better be because the baby’s head is crowning and I’m the only one there to do something. People are standing around expecting me to do something, you know, medical or midwifey or something. So, I softly touch the woman and tell her gently to ‘push’ in a very affirmative voice, like I know what I’m doing. And anyway suddenly the baby just like is out and I’m holding it and it’s alive; and I keep saying to myself ‘It’s alive; it’s alive’ as if I can’t believe what I’m experiencing or feeling; I’m holding life. And we tie the umbilical cord off, and wash the stuff off the baby and I wash its mouth and give it a little breath, and it starts crying and breathing and being even more alive; and it’s still in my hands, and I still can’t believe I am holding life. I look then at the mother, who is sweaty and exhausted and smiling, and then I look at the baby, and I try to make the connection; but I can’t. I can’t get pass feeling life in my hands, as if I had never before experienced aliveness. I give the baby girl to her mother. Then I am back on the Tapestry, and we are journeying again.
“It was alive!” I whisper.
“She is alive,” the Tapestry corrects.
“Yeah, that. Wow. Alive. I felt aliveness.”
“Yes; that is what it feels like. It is important for you to know, for you to experience it – holistically, energetically, physically.”
Then She pauses. “See if you can feel Ting-let. Yes, he likes the name you gave him. Hold out your hands, and after he settles on them, close your eyes.”
And so I do… tentatively, because he kind of scares me.
Incredibly gently and slowly, Ting-let floats up and then drifts into the cup of my hands. I can feel him there, as a substantial sentience, or sea-creature, or something, but it feels so cognitive, as I try to integrate the sensory input I am receiving.
“Close your eyes, Child.”
“Don’t forget to breathe.”
I begin taking long, slow, deep breaths, as if I were in a human-based atmosphere. I let my mind go away, so I can reach to some more sacred intuitive knowing of life; of aliveness. And it comes. I can feel a tingling, a pulsing, a singing, like a piece of my heart come to life. And I get it. Life. I open my eyes.
Ting-let is staring at me, or rather, through me, into me, obviously more connected to me than my awareness of being connected to him. But the sharing, the spirit-fasting, is awesome and intense, and I know life and aliveness once again. Then he leaps off and goes to the ‘front’ like a look-out.
“You have done spirit-fasting before with a friend. Remember the aliveness of that?”
And I do remember, fondly, the hand-spirit-fasting of sharing the energy of each, without agenda, intent, fear or expectation. I remember it as an awesome experience.
Suddenly, the landscape shifts again. This time I am in a Siberian yurt. Again, a woman is giving birth. And again, I am the one standing there like a midwife, encouraging the woman and enhancing the process of birth. The head that crowns this time has thick straight black hair all over, and it is not waiting for me to be ready. He comes quickly, almost leaping into my hands. It is as if I know better what I am doing, expecting, experiencing, and the cord is cut quickly. The baby boy is washed as he cries loudly, triumphantly. I hold him aloft and announce him, “Welcome, Tunka-sha!” (Which is Little Wolf).
Still, I am amazed. I feel him in my hands and he is alive! He is alive, and his mother is alive, and it is all connected, and I am still trying to process the miracle of it all.
I feel myself back on the Tapestry.
“That is enough for now. We will go to my Home, and rest. You need time to process all this.”
So I stretch out upon her and fall quickly asleep.