III.

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Although I’m exhausted, I can barely sleep. So, I grab my jacket and head out for a walk as soon as the sun rises. The walk turns out to be worthwhile. I even stop to sit on a bench and close my eyes for a few moments, just to calm my nerves. The sound of the waves, the ocean air, and the smell of the wet cypress help ground me for what’s to come next.

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Feeling somewhat renewed, I head back to the house. I walk in and stand motionless in the entryway for a good minute, just to tune my senses to the interior space again. Checking the table to make sure everything is still in place, I am slightly annoyed to find the pencils and pens scattered about, mostly on the floor. Before looking to see what else has changed while I was gone, I walk over to the bedroom to throw my jacket on the bed, and what I find next shocks me.

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Grossly scrawled on the bedroom door in black ink, I find:

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HELP ME. I NEED YOUR HELP!

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This, I thought, was going too far. Events are now extending further out into my personal space, and I refuse to be terrorized by some ghost, rakshasa, or whatever it is. There is a line that mustn’t be crossed, and that line is the bedroom where, I believe, I sleep safely each night. My anxiety now turns into anger, and I know I must confront the situation head-on.

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“Oh, no you don’t,” I say out loud.

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If anyone were to witness what happened next, they would have surely admitted me to a hospital for a psychiatric evaluation. I walk briskly over to the dining table, sit down where I was sitting the morning before, and demand the spirit’s presence.

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“Okay, buddy. I need you to show yourself—NOW!” I insist.

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I am half hoping that the whole thing is just an elaborate gag, that the crew of pranksters that set me up will now crawl out from their hiding places, laughing hysterically and offering me a check for twenty-five thousand dollars if I agree to have the entire episode play on Netflix.

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Instead, nothing.

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No big reveal.

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No sign of the Tin Man.

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“Fine, have it your way,” I say, giving up.

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I get up and stomp over to the sofa, arms crossed, wondering what to do about my ghost problem.

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Just as I consider another walk to clear my thoughts, the parade of lights reappears—drifting across the floor, up the wall beside me. The lights form a circle and rotate clockwise for a few rounds, and then slowly counterclockwise. What happens next, I can only describe as a kind of light show. The delicate points of light multiply and then change forms, expanding and contracting, falling into the center and then merging out again in a jellyfish-like motion. The spectacle is both charming and fascinating in its visual complexity.

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And yet, the whole thing has a certain innocence about it that is hard to explain. I laugh out loud joyfully, because it’s so uplifting and unexpected. Afterward, I interpret the show to be a sort of apology, a recognition that perhaps things had gotten a little out of hand.

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Next, I slowly get up from the sofa, walk back to the table, sit down opposite from where the figure appeared earlier that morning, and close my eyes, allowing whatever is to happen next to unfold. Before long, I can hear it once again, composing itself with kitchen utensils, like a tornado whirling through a China shop.

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When I open my eyes, it’s there once again.

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It’s strange to see it in the daytime, which makes it appear more real than before and indicates that it wasn’t just a dream. It’s a bit different from the previous heap of objects I found. The figure made of random kitchen utensils is more refined, as if the spirit were learning how to make a better representation of itself. This shows me that it has an intellect and isn’t just some mindless, wandering “hungry ghost.” In addition, the toaster head with its two temperature knobs for eyes has now been replaced with a rather pleasant blue glass vase from atop the bookshelf. It’s round and quite large, giving the impression that the humanoid has a big head and is capable of profound thought.

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THANK YOU

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Those are the first words it writes on a piece of paper. Regaining a sense of calm and composure, I respond with a slight bow. I know that despite the freakish events that preceded this, what I am witnessing is also the Self, the light of pure, ineffable awareness we all carry. I also feel it might be a privilege to be having an experience with such a being, which clearly it is. Thus commences an extraordinary series of scheduled daily meetings that will play out for the next five days.

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“What should I call you?” I ask politely.

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HUGH, it writes back.

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“Well, nice to meet you, Hugh,” I say in a neighborly voice. There is no response, and I am at a loss for words, still feeling incredulous that this is all really happening. Am I being too friendly? I wonder. Maybe I should be more serious.

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Some moments pass when Hugh writes:

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I AM YOUR STUDENT

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And then on the next line:

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YOU ARE MY TEACHER.

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Like everything else that has happened up to this point, this is unexpected. I’ve never thought of myself as being any kind of teacher, nor entertained the thought of ever becoming one. Although I’ve learned much from being a yogi and unlocking the meaning of the scriptural texts, I am really pretty guarded about what I know. It isn’t something that I ever bring up with friends and family.

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I understood early on that gaining Self-knowledge and learning the most hidden secrets of the nature of existence isn’t for everyone. I think it kind of freaks people out, like cutting open your abdomen so you can examine your own organs. Who would do such a thing? Better to leave it all neatly tucked away and out of sight.

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Feeling more confident, I respond, “If you’re the student and I’m the teacher, what am I to teach you … um … Hugh?” I still don’t feel comfortable calling the animated mass of kitchen clutter by name.

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THE WAY OUT, Hugh writes.

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It wasn’t until much later in my spiritual journey that I really understood the meaning of samsara. It’s said that the primary cause of samsara is beginningless ignorance, which is foisted upon each one of us at birth. As a result, each of us grows up believing we are the body-mind-sense complex, with a particular set of likes and dislikes. However, when we try to look for the essence of who we are, we are at a loss and will inevitably point to the head, indicating that it’s somewhere in there. This is mostly due to most of our senses being located there. If our eyes, nose, mouth, and ears were located on our legs, for example, we would probably say our legs are where our essence lies. Thus, we go through life thinking we are the body-mind and become distraught when it doesn’t appear or behave like we want it to—that is, when it gets sick, gets old, and loses its capacity to remember. There is also that thing called “death” that doesn’t appeal to most of us.

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However, ancient scripture suggests that the body-mind is nothing more than a temporary set of clothes for our true identity, which, again, is pure awareness. It also shows that the scientists have had it all wrong. Awareness doesn’t reside in the brain; the brain resides in non-dual awareness—as do all objects. It is this superimposition of the body-mind onto awareness, or rather, the belief that we are that body-mind, that causes us to remain in samsara and suffer as a result.

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As I mentioned before, I have never been one to believe that beings exist in other realms, and until I met Hugh, I didn’t believe in spirits. But if I had to guess, I would say Hugh is a bodiless soul, neither here nor there. He has a life force—otherwise, he wouldn’t be able to do any of the things he does—but he is without a physical body, and therefore, he requires other means to express himself.

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What I know for certain is that Hugh is not in a happy place. He is trapped and hurting and is asking for my cooperation. Am I about to unleash hell on earth by helping a mysterious disembodied spirit escape from his constraints? It doesn’t feel that way. I also feel this isn’t a situation where I will be granted three boons by simply letting the genie out of the bottle. In the end, it’s much more ordinary than that. (I will think back on it later as simply helping a friend remove a thorn that he could not remove himself.)

I have a thousand questions for Hugh, but I always feel like our time is limited during each of our meetings. Furthermore, our ability to have a full dialogue is hampered by Hugh’s lack of dexterity with writing. Having little motor control, he tends to write very slowly, using large letters in all caps that quickly fill up a sheet of paper. It has also been made clear from the start that my role is to be the teacher and provide answers, not questions.

Hugh, of course, has many inquiries and will often write brief questions, for which he demands long answers, as if he were trying to squeeze every ounce of knowledge from me. He jots down, MORE when my answers taper off and there is silence between us, or AGAIN to make sure he understands what I have just explained. Aside from that, I sense that Hugh’s entrapment isn’t physical, but rather psychological. He seems to be trying to refine his understanding of himself, as if it were his lack of knowledge regarding himself that is holding him back.

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A typical conversation goes something like this:

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Hugh: WHO AM I?

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Me: “Hugh.”

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Hugh: [again] WHO AM I?

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Me: “The question should be, ‘What am I?’, not ‘Who am I?’”

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Hugh: WHAT AM I?

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I then proceed to reveal that he can’t possibly be any of the things he believes himself to be—which is referred to as the neti-neti (“not this, not that”) approach to teaching the Self.

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The idea is that to truly understand one’s nature, one must methodically eliminate that which is blocking them from seeing it in the first place. This is because the truth of what you are cannot be shown. It can only be uncovered via a process of negation. And that’s because you cannot perceive that which you are.

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This seems illogical, until you realize that in order to know something, there must be a separation between the knower and the known, the subject and the object. To know the subject would mean that the subject would need to become the object, which is not possible, because you cannot know an object without a subject to know it. That would be like trying to look at your own eyes with your own eyes, or tasting your tongue with your tongue.

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Scripture shows that there are five “sheaths” that must be, figuratively speaking, removed in order to reveal our true identity. They are the gross body, the physiology, the mind, the intellect, and the subconscious. Each one is like the layer of an onion, obscuring the essence of who/what we are. The further down we go, the less opaque the veil, and the more our essence shines through.

 

DAY 10

Although Hugh doesn’t have a body or physiology, he has unique powers that enable him to do things like direct light and move and vivify inert objects, among other things. I wanted to find out if he identifies with these powers, so I asked if he believed these powers are part of what makes him Hugh. He indicated that his powers are no different than the powers we as humans all take for granted. For example, the power to will our hands to pick up something, or to will our legs to move us across the room. While we can describe these common actions logically using physics, chemistry, and biology, they are in themselves, like little miracles. He explained that some of his powers aren’t willed by him at all. They just happen through some force unknown to him, similar to how our eyes just see and our ears just hear with no effort on our part. This raises the question, who is doing the seeing and hearing if I’m not willing it to happen? As such, he admitted that he doesn’t have full control over his powers. Like the power of seeing and hearing, he indicated that sometimes his powers work well, and sometimes they don’t. I responded by asking again whether he thinks the powers are him, because if that were the case, the powers should always work the same. “But the fact that they’re inconsistent and that some of these powers happen through a force unbeknownst to you,” I explained, “shows that they can’t be you.” Hugh could now see where the conversation was heading and answered with his usual MORE.

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Next, we moved on to the mind sheath. I inquired, as part of having a subtle spirit body, whether or not he has random thoughts. He answered, YES. This was a good sign, because I now know he’s working with the same software we all are—that is, a monkey mind that sometimes inadvertently gets itself into trouble. I wanted to learn about Hugh’s psychology, his likes and dislikes, and what exactly was keeping him bound. But first, I had to show him he wasn’t the mind either. I asked him what it is that he believes is putting unwanted thoughts in his head. There was no answer from him. I then asked him what he believes it is that wills a thought, or even what it is that wills himself to will. Again, no answer. Some moments later, he wrote, AGAIN. So, I repeated the same set of questions. This was actual Self-inquiry in practice, the slow and sometimes painful unraveling of ignorance regarding our true nature. AGAIN, he wrote, like a child wanting to see the same coin trick over and over. At some point, I suggested we stop for the day to give him a chance to ponder the revelations already covered.

 

 

I am curious to know more about my student. I figure Hugh is either some kind of alien being, or that the ghost stories are right, and he is an actual damned soul, and there really is a purgatory. I have strong doubts about the latter, but I decide to look into it anyway.

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I begin to search the house for any clues as to who the owner is or has been, assuming that Hugh is somehow connected with the house’s history. It’s a vacation home, not a permanent residence, so my chances of finding anything that reveals past events are slim. Nevertheless, I look through all the drawers, cabinets, and closets in the house, but come up short. I even take down all the books from the bookshelf to see if any of them have been inscribed to anyone. In the end, all that I must go by are the framed photographs on the walls—mostly of people on what was probably their third glass of wine, with their arms around each other. From the style of clothing and sunglasses, my guess is that most of the yellowing photos were taken in the ’90s, perhaps earlier. Many of them also include the same woman, but with different hairstyles and with different people. To me, it seems the current owner is a single woman, most likely in her seventies now.

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Unsatisfied with the results of my investigation, I do the obvious thing and call the realtor’s office that rented me this vacation stay. Pretending to want to make a large unsolicited offer on the house, I ask for the owner’s name. Sure enough, the owner is still alive and is a she—a Ms. Patricia Swanson, who spends half the year living at her Sea Ranch house and the other half in San Francisco. To investigate further, I drive to the local recorder’s office and look up the address on one of the computer terminals available to the public. I discover that there have been three owners dating back to 1965, but nobody with the first name Hugh. While at the recorder’s office, I also do a Google search of the terms “Hugh” and “Sea Ranch,” and a few obituaries come up, but none with enough detail to provide clues that anyone named Hugh might have lived in the house. A further search on the deceased’s names reveals nothing particularly interesting—no tragic accidents, no missing persons reports, no unsolved mysteries. Just ordinary lives, neatly concluded, leaving me with nothing but more questions.

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I sit back and stare at the screen, drumming my fingers against the desk. If Hugh ever existed, he left no trace—at least not one the records are willing to reveal.

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I drive back to the house and am just about to call it quits, when I remembered the garage, which is locked and not accessible. The garages at all these rentals are always locked, but I can’t resist the temptation to continue my prying. I search for a hidden key somewhere in or around the house but find nothing. For the second time, I almost give up, when I notice that the main garage door is an electric one.

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Most people don’t know that their electric garage door has a manual lock, instead assuming that the door self-locks after closing. However, to securely lock most electric garage doors, you need to physically slide a metal lever from the inside of the garage. Otherwise, someone can come along, pry the door open from the bottom, and lift the rest using only their bare hands. With the help of a crowbar from the trunk of my car, I am easily able to stick my fingers under the small garage door and lift it up the rest of the way.

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Inside the one-car garage, I find miscellaneous cleaning supplies, light bulbs, a clothes rack, a small artificial Christmas tree, and boxes full of old books, DVDs, and CDs. I rummage through the stuff but find nothing that would provide any history of the home’s past inhabitants.

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Discouraged, I close the garage door and walk back inside when my intuition tells me to look under the beds. Sure enough, there is what appears to be a large picture frame under the bed in the guest room. I drag it out and dust it off outside. It isn’t just a frame, but an antique photograph that has been carelessly glued to a thin piece of plywood backing and is peeling off.

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It’s a family portrait that includes two young boys and their proud parents. I turn it over, and on the other side is faintly handwritten:

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Mom and Dad with Phillip and Hubert, Chicago, 1923

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I can barely believe my good fortune. Could this be Hugh as a child? I wonder.

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Unfortunately, I will never know. I suppose I could’ve tracked down the names of the relatives of the deceased from the obituaries or contacted the owner to ask whether they know anything about the picture under the bed in the guest room, but it would feel like I am the one now getting out of hand.

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I don’t want to jeopardize the relationship I have just begun by invading Hugh’s private life, if that’s what you would call it, and then confronting him about it. Perhaps I have let my curiosity get the best of me. After all, would me knowing about Hugh’s history really help Hugh? Hugh isn’t looking for a shrink to unload all his woes on, he’s looking for an escape.

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Continue to Part IV

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