The catalyst for this spiritual
awakening was my soulmate, Michael, and
the rediscovery of a timeless connection
that we share. But at the time, my boat
was swamped. There were no answers in any
books, and no teachers to whom I could
turn for guidance. My life was turning
upside down, inside out - and becoming
magical. On a whim, I drove down to
Bisbee one weekend to regroup.I
stayed at the Inn, of course. It was a
wonderful, peaceful weekend. I listened
to the Wizard play piano through
breakfast, and later sat on a bench in
the hill garden behind the hotel,
watching the clouds float across the sky.
It was exquisite.
As I relaxed in the library
Saturday afternoon, reading a book of
Hindu poetry that I had found on a shelf,
the wizard walked in with a group of
guests. He was giving a tour of the Inn,
and I found myself eavesdropping with
considerable amusement.
The
unsuspecting recipients of this
'Magical Mystery Tour' were a
family - two adults and two
children. The wizard was telling
them all about the area as he
perceived it - filled with
boundless earth magic and
spiritual energy.
He described the
beautiful hiking trails in the
Chiricauas and how he loved to
run there, and was often so
inspired that he would stop and
hug the nearest tree. I grinned
into my book.
Suddenly the wizard
was family. He was no longer
'dangerous', but a fellow
traveler on
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the 'road less
taken.' I understood then why I had come.
Finally... here was someone who could
tell me what was happening in my life.
I returned again and again
that year, and spent hours listening to
the Wizard talk about anything and
everything that passed, like lightening,
through his amazing mind. I brought him
questions that bothered me... "What
is the nature of evil? Is there such a
thing as fate? Do we live many lives? Do
we meet each other again and again?"
He always had an answer, or an idea, and
no question was silly or beneath his
interest. The answers were often
profound; and always I had to let go of
my mind and allow the pictures to flow
through me, for I could never follow the
rapid dance of words. He was magical, and
he was a teacher. More than this, I saw
recognition in his eyes. He saw me - the
inner me, the part I hid from the rest of
the world. He spoke volumes of words, but
his eyes said even more. I was accepted.
One of my favorite visits
took place that December, just after my
birthday. I was returning from dinner,
and was climbing the staircase to my
room, when the Wizard popped out of a
doorway at the top of the landing. He was
wearing a bathrobe, and an enormous grin
split his face. "They are really mad
at me," he exclaimed mischievously.
"I started my bath water, you see,
and then got into the most wonderful
conversation... of course I forgot all
about the tub...."
Apparently, the bath water
had overflowed and dripped through the
floor and into the kitchen where dinner
was being prepared! I am sure no one else
found it as amusing as the Wizard did;
but his mirth was contagious, and we had
a great laugh over it until his daughter
came up the stairs and I, sensing there
would be 'a reckoning,' retreated to my
room.
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Somehow in that
short span of time on the
staircase, we had one of our
'amazing conversations.' I
commented on how our discussions
never seem to begin or end, but
that we would just pick up where
we had left off each time we saw
each other. He looked
at me with those penetrating eyes
and said "No conversation
ever ends. That is part of the
illusion. We are forever setting
them down and picking them up
again. And we always will."
I
have often thought of his words
in recent months, especially when
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wandering the
halls of the Inn. I half expect him to
pop out from around some corner and start
talking again, like nothing has ever
changed. I am sure for him, it hasn't...
I returned the following spring with
Michael, anxious to introduce him to the
Wizard and show him the Inn - my special
haven. We had survived months of pain and
trauma, and had finally managed to bring
our lives together. We were exhausted and
drained, but very happy.
The wizard seemed to
'recognize' Michael right away. As a way
of introduction, he studied Michael's
face and said "Your eyes... they are
unblinking and very deep. Do you
meditate? I thought so. You have the eyes
of a master."
The Wizard then began to
teach. He spoke of space and meditation,
and that point at which all realities,
science and mysticism merge. I was
perfectly content to sit and listen as
the Wizard spun his magic for Michael,
and watched his eyes widen in amazement
as he tried to process and absorb the
endless flow of words spoken "at the
speed of C."
But there was a desperate
edge about the Wizard that day, and our
following visit later that spring. He
seemed withdrawn and desperately unhappy,
locked within some inner, tortuous realm
that only he could see.
I timidly
approached him one morning as he
swept the patio, and asked if he
would play piano for us (we
consistently oversleep when
visiting the Inn, and almost
always dash in to breakfast just
before the kitchen closes.) He
initially snapped at me, without
looking up from his broom "I
played for over an hour
already."
But as I returned
to the dining area, he followed
me, with a rueful, apologetic
smile on his face. "You know
I would do anything for you,
Maire."
Listening to the
wizard play the piano was a
special joy to me.
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It was never that
he was a concert virtuoso - but more that
he tapped into the natural flow. His
music kept time with clouds rolling
across the sky, and the grass waving in a
summer breeze. Time ceased, my mind
slipped away, and I sank into a vast,
rolling ocean of rhythmic tidal currents.
I don't even remember now what selections
he played. Mostly classics, I believe...
Hoagy Carmichael, light jazz... it never
mattered. I floated away on a magic
carpet at the first chords.
After our command
performance, he joined us at the table.
He was very upset and agitated that day,
and spoke of the desire to rest - to end
his life and find peace at last. He told
us of his numerous suicide attempts, and
that at times his awareness made life
unbearable. I listened and I
understood... but I had no words of
comfort. His struggle was also my own. I
too have felt so alienated from this
world at times, that I have longed for
peace, including that lasting peace in
the light.
He gave Michael a copy of
his first book to read and review, hoping
that he would be able to grasp its
meaning... he had been disappointed many
times when others gave up after a page or
two. Then we left... somewhat relieved to
have left the intensity of his anguish.
The Wizard was always larger than life:
his joy was a magic sleigh ride... his
pain was the darkness of the void.
Our last visit with the
Wizard came one month later. Michael and
I sat in the dining room eating our
breakfast, and listening to him play. I
felt complete and content. I was with my
people. Michael and I grinned
helplessly at each other as the Wizard
flamboyantly, and with great dramatic
emphasis, told a story to some friends at
a nearby table. Our hearts were
overflowing with happiness and love, for
each other and for our Wizard.
At last he joined us at our
table, and immediately the talk turned
serious. He again spoke of his depression
and his desire to end his life. He told
us that he had been institutionalized in
the past, and that he was considered
crazy. We listened quietly. He wasn't
looking for comfort, and the words
streamed out of him so rapidly I doubt we
could have found an opening if we had
known what to say. It was as though he
knew he was running out of time, and
wanted to tell us everything in a rush.
Before we left, Michael
asked if he could buy the book, and if
the Wizard would sign it for him. I will
never forget that last moment we were all
together... in the very hallway where I
had met the Wizard years before. After
signing the book he handed it to Michael,
who spontaneously and formally bowed, as
a student bows before a great master. The
wizard bowed in return.
I had never said goodbye to
the Wizard on any of my other visits. It
felt strange to do so now. Neither of us
knew what to do. I wanted to hug him, but
I hung back. He held out his hand
uncertainly, and so I shook it.
On the way home, Michael
and I spoke with wonder of our strange
leave-taking. It never occured to our
conscious minds that the Wizard was going
to die. But it appears that our souls
knew. When I think back, I berate myself
for not seeing the signs - for not
believing that he would really do it. I
now suspect that some higher
consciousness within me did know he was
going to leave us, and accepted it. But
this passed below the surface, unheeded
by my mind.
He is gone now, gone to
some other, brighter place.
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Two days
after our visit, overcome at last
by the darkness, he went out into
the desert and took his own life.
At the time of his
death Jim was 72, and in perfect
health. He ran 10 miles a day,
meditated daily for 5 hours, and
handled all of the maintenance
and landscaping for the Inn. He
wrote over 40 books, and painted
numerous oil masterpieces,
including a nearly perfect
reproduction of Van Gogh's
"Starry Night."
He has touched
countless people with his grace
and sensitivity, and healed many
wounds with his kindness.
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I will never
forget him.
Someday my friend, we will
pick up the threads of our unending
conversation, right where we left off...
"Now I understand
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
How you tried to set them free -
They would not listen, they did not know
how
Perhaps they'll listen now
For they could not love you
And still your love was true
And when no hope was left in sight
On that starry, starry night
You took your life, as lovers often do
But I could have told you my friend
The world was never meant for one as
beautiful as you."
"Vincent"
-
Don McLean
Please
direct email to: jimbabcock@oocities.com .
Copyright
© 1998 The Old Souls Network. All rights
reserved.
Revised: November 12, 1998.
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