Jumping (14 page)

Duncan Robert smiles again. “I loved it. It's like you got it. You really got it. That's why I call it a gift. And your work with your students! The stuff about the importance of a jump, no matter your age or circumstances—who could have said it better? We could learn so much from what kids hang on to, and you were giving them stuff to hang onto. And you add to that the stuff about the Void—it is an invitation to the jump. For what other reason would it exist? As a repository for our fears? The Universe doesn't work that way. Nothing is a static repository. Nothing. You put it all together in a way that's really useful. I think you should do a course on the Void.”

Miles laughs. “I do have a lot of material. But I barely had that thought myself! I don't know that they'd let me.” He laughs again.

“Well, they live with a Void,” Duncan Robert says, “only a few miles from their door.”

“Yeah, but that's just it. They don't want to stir things up, you know. God forbid they should disturb the status quo.”

“I wondered how you knew what had happened at the Void,” I say, before I think, not meaning to interrupt them, thinking they had forgotten I was there. “You knew when I got to town to do my story, that I was talking with Miles, and my experience at the Void. Didn't you?”

“Yeah, I did know—in a general sense. I had my thoughts and my awareness on Miles a lot, and I got where I could sense what was going on with him. I'm sure it was with my cohort's help. Then you became part of what was happening with him. But pretty soon I realized I had an awareness of you, separate from him, some of it in dreams. I dreamed you standing at the edge of the Void.

“That was a powerful moment. I think we all met each other there, on some level. I knew what was happening. But I didn't know how it was going to turn out any more than you two did,” Duncan Robert says. “That was quite an achievement, Babe,” he looks at me with admiration in his eyes. “You actually went to the Void and took a real look inside. That's fearless! The Void took you to your deepest fear and showed it to you in a new way, so you could confront it. You're a powerful person, Babe, and I'm glad to know you.”

“Whew!” I say, remembering that day. “Thanks, Duncan Robert. That means a lot, coming from you.” I am a little choked up.

“Really, I'm no different than you. Just a little more connected.”

“But you've jumped!” Miles and I both say, sharing the same thought, almost shouting.

Duncan Robert laughs. “Okay! I'll grant you that.”

“It's your experience we're talking about now. What was it for you? What did it answer? What do you make of it?”

Duncan Robert looks at Miles with seriousness. “Here's what it makes me think of—Einstein's observers of lightning—one on the train, inside, one on the bank, at the side of the tracks, outside. What did they see, when did they see it? You're on the train—you understand the explanations of the people on the train. I've gotten off. I have a different explanation of that lightning. I can't put it all into words for someone still on the train. No, it doesn't mean you have to jump. It just means I might not be able to explain it to you, to your satisfaction. It's specific to me—you know, your jump is your jump.”

“Well, it makes me think of Higgs Boson,” Miles says into the pause. And they both laugh.

Clearly, that's an inside joke, so I ask, “What?!”

“Who understands that?” Duncan Robert asks, chuckling.

“Well, maybe it's childish, but I thought you might be able to explain things like particle physics,” Miles says, with a little laugh. We were both thinking his fall had somehow made him smarter, more all-seeing and all-knowing—therefore, able to explain even particle physics to us. We couldn't imagine such a profound experience as he'd had in the Void hadn't given him some sort of advantage over everyone else on Earth. That would be part of how he'd been changed by his jump.

“What I think,” Duncan Robert says, “is that the fall accelerated my energetic force or speed to match that of my cohorts in the cave, so it was like we were all standing still. Does that make sense? In reality (whatever that is), they're operating at a much higher speed or vibration than we are, but because I jumped, I caught up to them and could have a conversation, a meeting, for a while. The Void is a place, like a vacuum, where things become equal, so it's easier to see things, be with things, as if all are real. The length of the fall gave me time to catch up. Now, that's Einstein-ian, I think. And maybe the veil is thinnest, possibilities greatest, when you're with the energy of your cohort—a bond stronger than life.”

“I created something, a situation, that allowed me to find myself. It was an act of creativity,” he says again, “not desperation, as I thought. It was the most creative thing I could do. It certainly wasn't a small act. It gave me plenty of room!”

Miles and I looked at each other as we both think of the Void, the grass around it as green as the greenest things of spring.

In a way, Duncan Robert has de-mystified it. In a way, he has made it more mysterious than ever. Any jumper could still never know what he or she might encounter down there.

Now that we have his answers, such as they are, all that's left is our answers—what we put together now. Do we have any? Our buffer is gone—the person who stood between us and the Void, who protected us from the Void, in a sense. He's told us what he could of it. Now, what will we do with that? We didn't realize there would be that kind of shift—to us. What are we going to do with that? It's like when your parents have died and you know you're next—there's nothing between you and death now. It feels that open.

I am suddenly struck by how far we've gotten from any discussion of death! At the start, both Miles and I (let alone everyone in town) thought that jumping and falling must be about that, at least partly. How else could a jump and fall end? I think of the people in the village who felt sure it was an act of suicide. I blurt out, “We've haven't talked about death at all! It's all been about life.”

“And the best kind of life! Happy, with meaning and purpose,” Duncan Robert says. This gave us all pause.

“Wow. Find your instructions for living in the Void,” Miles shakes his head and laughs. “We could bill it as an adventure trip—like an Alaska cruise.”

“You'd have to be careful,” Duncan Robert says. “You'd have people suing you for failure to deliver. It wouldn't work for everyone.” They chuckle.

“You boys do egg each other on, don't you,” I observe.

“Yeah, we're quite a team,” Miles says.

Duncan Robert looks at him and says, “You know we are. I couldn't have jumped without you.”

“What do you mean?” Miles asks, looking sideways at him.

“Our conversations took me, inch by inch, closer to the Void. We rehearsed it all, together, in those conversations.”

Miles is stopped by this. But he doesn't argue. “I'm bothered by that,” he says, with a frown. “I think the same thing was happening in my conversations with Babe, which took her to the brink.”

“Wait a minute,” I say to Miles. “I've been called to the Void since I was a child. I had to go. You didn't push me there. All your talk just helped clarify that call. Going there helped me see I'd always had a choice.”

He doesn't look convinced. He's still frowning.

“Look how important we are to each other,” Duncan Robert says. “Look how we need each other.”

“I'm not so sure,” Miles says. “Is it the right thing we do for each other?”

Duncan Robert looks at him. “Those conversations were acts of creativity—they went where they went. We let them. I think it was us at our best. We didn't let fear stop us, not-knowing stop us. We just went there. Did our homework, asked questions, thought, worked things out for ourselves.”

“But it feels like we assumed a responsibility there maybe we didn't realize we were assuming.”

“For my life?” Duncan Robert asks. “
We
never had that.
I
always had that. And I was aware of that.”

Miles frowns. “It's just scary to think about. I guess most of us are used to thinking of death as something outside of our control, not knowing when it will come or how, rather than stepping up to a moment and then finding ourselves moving beyond it.”

“You guys love each other and you know it,” I say. “There's your protection, right?”

Miles looks at me with tears in his eyes for the umpteenth time that day, saying not a word.

Duncan Robert suggests gently, “Let's get back to the story. There's not a lot more to tell. I was right at a moment of choice, Guy's ‘point of magic.’ He moves back to the couch and picks up his glass of water.

Break is over. I pick up my notebook and shake out my fingers before picking up my pen. Miles lies back on the floor, to stare at the ceiling as he listens.

T
HE FOUR OF THEM
, plus Anai in owl form, are looking at me in the soft glow of the fire. I'm looking back at them, feeling such a part of everything here that I swear I can feel the walls breathe with me. And I am more present than I've ever been, inhabiting every part of myself down to the smallest of my cells. I think, startled, “This is what joy is.”

But I knew the time to go was coming. I could feel it.

“Yes, we could use your help.” Guy looks at me.

I realize I've been asked a question, and I think I know what it is. It feels like the heart of my ‘point of magic’—it feels that big.

I feel all the old boundaries between me and everything else melt away—at that moment the world was without boundaries, as it was meant to be. I look at the Team. I can feel them—their feelings, state of mind, intentions, love. The joining of my and their energies has breached the barriers. I see their example of how to live without boundaries. Their pure feelings for each other give them their high energy—a kind of enthusiasm for themselves, each other, and their own experience.

So I'm having all these realizations, and they sound in my head the way they must be coming across to you, too—half-crazy, jumbled up over each other, overwhelming—but feeling so right, so true. They were asking me to do what they do. I was their opportunity to serve. And you're mine—you two. There's not a doubt in my mind what to do. That's why I'm back and talking.

“As soon as they knew I wanted to do it—to serve as they serve—I knew it was time for me to go. They had things to do, and I had a life to figure out. We hugged, we laughed, the owl Anai and I touched foreheads. They teased me about working harder to remember my dreams now, knowing they've gone to a lot of trouble; reminded me to put myself outside as much as I put the cat out, because Nature is important for both of us; told me to capture and hold close those moments of unexpected joy, to fuel my spirit when times get tough.

“Your own joy is your best resource, don't forget,” Lynette said.

Guy added, “We're closer than ever now, all of us. Call on us. We'll hear you. We'll come.”

“Yes,” Kahil agreed, “no one was ever meant to do this Earth stuff alone. No one ever could.”

Uche nodded, as he held both my hands in his, saying, “A bond stronger than life.” That still gives me chills.

There's not much more to tell. I didn't want to go. It was only the strength of my commitment to my purpose that made me able to go. Leaving seemed so unnatural, so wrong. It didn't bother them in the same way, of course—they are so used to parting and coming together, and keep in constant contact telepathically. They are always in each other's presence. I was still working on trusting that.

They said they were going to help me teleport back to where I came in, explaining that they know how to transport matter instantaneously from one spot to another, and could lend their energy to mine to make it possible for me. I asked what this would be like for me, and they said it would be a little like coming out from under anesthesia, but they were going to make sure I remembered everything.

Guy said, “And I don't think you'll have any nausea,” and laughed uproariously, which I found less funny though I was relieved to hear it. I stood in the center of their silent group and closed my eyes. I could feel their hands on me, at the center of their energetic attention, and I surrendered to the wonderful feeling sweeping over me. I felt myself floating off.

The next thing I knew, I was lying in the damp grass near the edge of the Void. It was still morning; the sun was still low on the horizon, its light slanting through the trees. It took me a while to collect myself, to fully realize where I was, to sit up and try to regain a sense of reality here, while the cave still felt more real. I was glad to have come back to such a peaceful place.

I don't know how long it was before I got up, knowing I was going home to say goodbye to my mother. I didn't question it. It just felt right. Before going, I walked over and stood at the edge of the Void and looked down. I could still see where my shoes had flattened the grass before I jumped. I stood there and spread my arms and closed my eyes and gave thanks. That was all I knew to do. It was a place I had trusted more than I had trusted the world, and it had proved trustworthy. I felt as if the Void received my thanks because I imagined I felt it tingling a bit at my feet. I don't know if I'll ever jump again, but I felt as if I could. I have no fear of it anymore.

I go to see Silvia, who is, of course, over-joyed to see me. The first thing she wanted to do was feed me, so I stayed for one of her great breakfasts—vegetarian omelet, just like I like it, homemade biscuits, fresh-squeezed juice—you know what I'm talking about, Miles.

Then I put a few things in a pack, getting away with telling her only the high points of what happened in the Void. She says she can tell I'm different, but she's happy with what she sees because I seem happier. So she's okay with my going, knowing I'll still be in the world and she'll be able to have contact with me. I tell her goodbye and I assure her I'll be in touch. I leave while it's still early, on foot. I like that. Ever since reading the Transcendentalists in English class, I imagined I would do this at some point in my life.

I wandered the back roads for a while, walking, camping, “living rough,” being away from everything, yet more a part of everything that's really important as I see it now. I had realizations out there it could take your whole life to achieve—and that's if you were lucky. What had happened to me was all consuming. I needed to be alone, because I couldn't use words as a means of experiencing or understanding everything. I just felt I needed to be alone and outside. Nature would support and ground my understanding.