II.

​

The first night is always the most challenging, partly because of being in a new place, and partly because, as I like to say, that’s when all the ghosts come out: memories of my youth, relationships, lost opportunities, things that could’ve been, and so on. I no longer identify with such regrets knowing that it’s just my mind, now working with a blank canvas, splattering thoughts around like some Jackson Pollock painting. I’ve also learned that this is a natural progression. The mind is fasting and will need some time—maybe three or four days before it reaches any kind of equilibrium. Nevertheless, I try to appease it by breaking up the day with various activities, such as preparing meals and taking frequent walks.

​

I am usually not one to record my experiences in a journal, but this time I make an effort to write at least a few sentences each day, using an old yellow pencil I found in one of the kitchen drawers and a nice leather-bound journal my sister once gave me for my birthday.

 

DAY 1

Mind is like a fish flapping about on dry land. Hard to stay focused just on the breath, but I am relentless and come back to it over and over again. Some brief moments of clarity, but have trouble dozing off. I probably should catch up on my sleep before doing more meditation. I forgot how difficult the first few days are! Had my first walk and sat under the cypress trees for a while with my eyes closed listening to the ocean waves below. Just wonderful.

 

The next day not much has changed.

 

DAY 2

Mind is still flapping about. It’s starved for stimulation and tries to distract itself with problem-solving (“Could I build a boat with the tools I have in the shop?”), or with some distant recollection (“What was her name who used to sit with me in those history lectures?”). Back and knees hurting a bit, but I’m sure they’ll settle in soon. Finally saw some wildlife today: a flock of tiny, rosy-faced house finches, ten or twelve of them, on the driveway this morning. Such social birds they are. Always together. I also saw a fox leaping through the meadow. And a family of deer grazing just outside my bedroom window at sunset. There’s always been a special brilliance and quality about this place. Speaking of brilliance, earlier I was eating lunch, and an interesting light pattern moved across the wall in the kitchen, like one of those Starlink satellite constellations now observable in the night sky. I tried to see where it was coming from, but no luck. It must’ve been from a passing hiker. Still, can’t imagine what would make such a pattern.

 

It’s now day three, and I have settled into my daily routine, interspersed with more meditation. I jot down my schedule in my journal, amazed that a day occupied with such simple activities can feel so fulfilling.

 

DAY 3

5:00 a.m.: Yoga

6:00 a.m.: Meditation

7:00 a.m.: Breakfast

8:00 a.m.: Walk

9:00 a.m.: Meditation

10:00 a.m.: Reading

11:00 a.m.: Meditation

12:00 a.m.: Lunch

1:00 p.m.: Nap

2:00 p.m.: Meditation

3:00 p.m.: Journaling

4:00 p.m.: Meditation

5:00 p.m.: Dinner

6:00 p.m.: Walk

6:30 p.m.: Meditation

7:30 p.m.: Reading

8:30 p.m.: Preparing for bed

9:00 p.m.: Lights out

 

Before going to bed, I open the large sliding glass door that leads out to the deck. I admire the starry night sky for a while and the sound of the ocean made muted by the trees strung along the cliff. I witness a shooting star, then go inside after it gets chilly. Later, as I lie in bed, I shut my eyes—and the night sky remains. Vivid. Perfect. Branded into the darkness behind my lids. Just one of the little gifts some alone time can bring.

 

DAY 4

Overall, a good day. Woke up to a thick fog outside this morning, which made the holy silence I was experiencing even more meaningful. Meditation is going well. Mind is starting to quiet down. Thoughts are beginning to lose their staying power, and I’m now able to rest in the moment. Things are also coming more into focus. Throughout the day, I observe this self-functioning body with utter amazement, knowing that I am doing nothing to keep my blood flowing, my food digesting, or the little hair left on my head growing. It’s all just happening on its own. Call it the “Creative Force,” “nature,” “God,” or whatever. It’s delightful to just rest in such wonderment.

 

DAY 5

After lunch, I decided to deviate from my regular schedule and go on a longer walk than usual. Hiking along the coast here can be very dramatic. The immense cypress canopies are large and intertwined, but managed with care so that they don’t just swallow up everything. As I walk through their haunting entanglement, it’s not hard to imagine I’m in some mythological Tolkien world and that at any moment I’ll run into Gandalf. At times, the darkness, coolness, and quiet these canopies encapsulate can be intimidating. I entered one such “tunnel” where every step seemed to be magnified, as if I were walking through an ancient cathedral. Uninhibited, I marched toward my destination, which was literally, a light at the end of the tunnel. When I finally broke through, there was a beautiful beach with bleached white sand and little sandpipers nervously running here and there in the surf. I took it all in and then sat down for some time, contemplating the immensity of the ocean and how the old sacred texts often use the ocean as a metaphor for describing our true nature.

 

DAY 6

Dreamed most of the night about the ocean from my excursion yesterday. There’s a lovely verse in the Mundaka Upanishad that says: “Just as rivers flowing become lost in the ocean and give up their name and form, so the knower, freed from all his identifications with name and form, reaches the supreme goal.” The use of the words “the knower” in this translation resonated with me, meaning “the one who has eliminated all false identifications about themselves, and as a result, has become one with the truth.” But knower of what?—their true identity, of course.

​

Some strange happenings this morning. After finishing my eggs, I was washing the dishes and laid down my fork and butter knife on the drain board while I looked for a towel. When I picked them up again, they were stuck together, as if by some strange magnetic force. With all my strength, I couldn’t separate them. Same thing happened tonight, except with a plastic spatula and a wooden stirring spoon. When I came back later, they were apart again, as if nothing had happened. Oh, and the Starlink constellation I first saw on the kitchen wall the other day? Saw it again—this time on the shower wall, of all places. I’m not the type to read into things, but this was just weird!

 

As I sit for meditation the next morning, I try not to let my mind spin out on the recent events. But it’s irresistible, and the mind spends the entire session trying to come up with various rational explanations for the trailing lights and sticking kitchen utensils. As a result, the peace I’ve worked so hard to cultivate begins to erode.

The day seems all but lost, when I take the garbage out and discover a bicycle in the small shed that keeps the trash cans hidden from the wildlife. Suddenly, my day has a new purpose. I pack a lunch, throw it in a backpack, and decide to pedal to wherever my legs will take me. I bike along the paved road and cross Highway 1, going uphill, east toward the forest. To my surprise, I find a small bakery seemingly out of nowhere and sit down to enjoy a cup of tea and a bagel, along with some reading I brought.

​

I come upon a passage from one of my favorite teachers that catches my attention. In the passage, the swami describes what in Sanskrit is called a jivanmukta—an individual (jiva) liberated (mukta) within their lifetime.

 

Similarly, having reached the limitless Self, it is proper to say that one does not return from there, in the sense that one does not go back to seeing themselves as limited. Even though such a person has gained knowledge, since the upadhi remains, we still call him a jiva, but a liberated one—a jivanmukta.

 

In other words, once an individual gains knowledge of their actual identity as unchanging, limitless, eternal, non-dual awareness, they never go back to identifying as a limited individual (jiva). The body-mind is a sort of veil, or to be more exact, a conditioning agent (upadhi) that conceals one’s true identity without ever altering it. Thus, even though one is “enlightened” and now identifies with the non-dual awareness and not the body-mind, they still appear to be just a regular Joe—and they are! Just a liberated one.

​

In the same book, Swami-ji goes on to describe samsara, and how it’s our misidentification with the body-mind and our binding desires that keep us perpetually tied to an endless cycle of birth and death. The sages tell us that those who know their true identity do not come back. This may be understood literally or figuratively, because if I identify with pure awareness, and not with the person I appear to be, then I am already out of samsara, and there is no one to be reincarnated. Thus, reincarnation, for the enlightened, is a moot topic. No person, no rebirth, and no samsara.

​

This might sound like a bad deal but it’s not, because the jivanmukta rests their identity in the whole rather than in the apparently flawed individual. The wave now understands that it is the ocean, and that there never was a time when it was not the ocean—which is pretty cool, if you think about it.

 

DAY 7

Woke up this morning a bit startled to find the deck chairs stacked straight up in no particular order with one of the plant pots sitting on top, and barbecue utensils sticking out of it. Below, lying on the ground, were some gardening tools and bamboo stakes, which looked as if they were also a part of the structure but had fallen out. The disarray had a kind of sculptural feel to it, as if some kids were trying to build something out of whatever miscellaneous objects were at hand—which wouldn’t surprise me. Kids quickly get bored up here if they haven’t learned to be away from TikTok for more than five minutes. No big deal; a minor nuisance, that’s all. Another random event.

​

My meditation is back on track, and I’m really savoring the silence now. Sometimes I sit and just silently watch the thoughts percolate to the surface. Or I investigate the feeling tone—that is, the quality of the experience, and whether it is pleasant, unpleasant, or neither pleasant nor unpleasant. This is something I picked up from the Buddhists. Other times, I meditate on awareness itself, using what I have learned from my other studies. Between sitting and walking, I read verses from the Gita or Gaudapada’s Mandukya Karika, sometimes aloud in Sanskrit (just because I like the way it sounds).

​

I find it’s easier to sleep when you’ve made amends with the world. So, before checking out, I wish all beings good health and that they may seek the truth. I even say a little something for the small critters just outside my window. May the world be well. May it be in harmony with itself. All is good. Om tat sat.

 

It’s 4:30 a.m., and I’m woken up by a tremendous racket coming from the kitchen, as if someone just got the news that they have the kids’ soccer team coming over for a pancake breakfast and are frantically looking for the griddle. I hear drawers opening, silverware falling to the floor, pans clashing, and pot lids wobbling on hard surfaces. I grab my robe and walk down the small hallway toward the clamor, more curious than fearful.

​

As I get closer, I wonder if I forgot to close a door and will find a family of raccoons swinging from the cupboards like a band of pirates. I struggle to find the light switch to the living room, which I decide to turn on as a sort of warning to whatever is in there that I’m coming in.

​

Except for the sound of a swiveling pot lid, the cacophony has now stopped, and from where I’m standing, I don’t see or hear any critters. I look to see if the sliding glass door to the outside is open, but it’s shut.

​

Hoping I don’t get attacked by whatever is in there, I slowly enter the darkened kitchen. Despite all the previous noise, I don’t see anything out of place except for a few open cabinets and drawers. Maybe my trespassers have left? I think to myself. I turn on the kitchen light to get a better look. Several items now seem to be missing from their places. What kind of thief would steal kitchen utensils? I wonder.

​

I close the half-emptied drawers, cabinets, and cupboards and look for where the bandit could’ve come in. As I walk out of the kitchen, I notice something in the periphery of my vision.

​

It’s the dining table.

​

To describe it briefly, I see what appears to be the backside of a heap of kitchenware “sitting” in one chair facing the window. Similar to the sculpture I found on the deck the other morning, it seems to be a collection of miscellaneous items put together to resemble a human.

​

Like some Tin Man from Oz, the torso is made of stacked pots, salad bowls, aluminum pans, and different-sized colanders. The legs I can’t see, but they must be like the arms, which are constructed of long serving spoons, a soup ladle, a thermos, and what appears to be the bottle of wine left for me by the caretaker. As for the head, well, it’s the toaster.

​

“Cute,” I say out loud as I move in closer to examine the artwork. There is no symmetry to the composition. It’s just a hodgepodge of objects used to fill out a human shape. There are also other smaller items stuck to it, such as spoons, forks, and butter knives, as well as the garlic press, the potato peeler, and the gravy server, not to mention the small vegetable steamer I just finished using hours ago—all totally random objects.

 

Walking around to get a better look, I see that it is using a long pair of tongs for one hand, which is lying motionless on the tabletop. The toaster head with its two temperature dials seems like a whimsical touch, but after discovering that the sculpture—or whatever it is—is holding a pencil, the whole thing just seems totally ridiculous, as if the prankster, before leaving the scene, said, “Wait, let’s make it so he looks like he’s writing something!”

 

I lean over the table to get a closer look, when I suddenly notice that the “hand” holding the pencil is writing something directly on the table. I can hardly believe my eyes, even wondering if what I’m experiencing isn’t some kind of lucid dream brought on by my meditation practice and stimulation-deprived mind. Whether or not it’s a dream, it appears as real as real gets.

​

Next, for reasons I can’t understand, I feel compelled to sit down in the chair across the table from the figure and just observe it. I try to make out what it’s writing, when suddenly it stops and taps the pencil on the table, as if it were signaling for me to read it.

The words are written upside down, so that I can read them without having to walk to the opposite side of the table. The scrawl is a bit rough, but I can clearly make out the words:

​

HELP ME. I NEED YOUR HELP.

​

My breath catches. My fingers tighten against the table’s edge. I hesitate—then swallow hard. “Okay,” I manage. “What kind of help?”

​

The figure begins writing again, but this time, the pencil lead breaks. Less than a second later, as if summoned, a drawer opens from the side table near the front door, and another pencil flies into its claw-like hand.

​

OUT! it responds in writing.

​

“Out of where?” I ask.

​

THIS, it writes back, now extending its arm toward the middle of the table in order to have more space to write.

​

Each time it writes, I can hear the various objects it is constructed of rubbing and clanking, especially where any glass touches metal.

​

“This? What ‘this’? You mean this?” I ask, pointing to it with both hands. “This thing you are?”

​

Suddenly the other arm rises and slams the table hard, sending a chopstick and other objects I can’t identify flying into the air. Next, the whole assemblage of parts that make up its anthropomorphic form loses whatever force that was keeping it together and comes crashing onto the floor, dumping kitchen utensils and spilling the now-broken bottle of wine everywhere.

​

I sense that I am once again alone.

​

“Hello?” I call. “Hello…?”

​

But there’s only silence.

​

Whatever spirit vivified the heap of kitchen stuff is now gone. I clean up the mess, forget about my yoga and meditation for the morning, and try to recall what just happened: a spirit, humanizing itself using miscellaneous items found in the kitchen, came to visit me. Communicating through writing, it had asked for help—specifically, “help out.” Out of what, I can’t say.

​

However, I am moved by how personal the first request felt, which is still written on the table: HELP ME. I NEED YOUR HELP. It wasn’t “I need help.” It was “I need your help,” as if it had chosen me from other candidates—perhaps others who have stayed at this rental home before me, or perhaps the owner herself.

​

Maybe I’m reading too much into it, but it was as if the spirit were asking for something it thought only I could provide. This helps to quiet the anxiety left over from the jarring experience and all the bizarre events leading up to it. Perhaps naively, I feel a sense of relief, even empathy for whatever is trying to communicate with me. I now hope the spirit will visit again soon and that I might learn more about its predicament.

​

Unable to provide anything for the mysterious entity to write on that’s not the table itself, I make a trip into town to buy a ream of paper and stock up on pens and pencils. I remove the driftwood centerpiece with tea lights from the long table and replace it with several sheets of paper neatly stacked, along with pens and sharpened pencils organized in two rows.

​

I also decide it’s best to leave all the pots and pans and other kitchen utensils out on the counter. I grab the rugs that are distributed throughout the house, cover them with plastic garbage bags, and set them around the dining table to save myself from having to report any more damage to the caretaker. Now, all I need to do is wait for it to return.

​

All day, I ponder what the spirit longs to escape. Common mythology would suggest that it may be in some kind of purgatory. I have to admit, I’ve never really taken the idea of an afterlife seriously until this moment. I’ve read myths about souls with bad karma being delivered to lower lokas, or realms, but I’ve always assumed such stories were for common folk who needed simple answers to hard questions. Never have I taken any of it to be literal. And yet, here I am, with a spirit asking for help “out.”

 

The day comes to an end, and I want to somehow let it know that I am open to continuing our conversation. So, I write a brief letter, ponder for some time about the best way to sign it, and then leave it on the table.

 

Dear Spirit,

I hope to meet again soon and learn more.

​

Sincerely,

Your friend    

​

Continue to Part III

​

​

​