Waiting for Autumn (4 page)

At almost that exact moment, the sun darkened outside and the air in the tipi became freezing cold. It went from summer to winter in a matter of seconds, and the fire in the center was extinguished without ceremony. The smoke from the herbs began to tickle the back of my throat, and the insistent drumming made my temples throb in time.

“Scott, open your palms to the sky and prepare to receive what is yours.”

“Okay,” I said, hoping that I was doing it right.

“Is your heart open and filled with love?”

“Yes,” I whispered. I concentrated on my love for Cheryl and intuitively pressed my chest outward as far as it would go.

Robert started chanting something I couldn’t understand, and I began to feel nauseated while the bottoms of my feet tingled. The feeling moved up the back of my legs to the base of my spine and eventually found its way to the back of my neck. The drumming continued to increase in intensity until all of a sudden it stopped, and silence fell over the tipi with the heaviness of a large wool blanket.

I opened my eyes and could barely see through the darkness, but as my eyes adjusted, I was able to make out Robert, who was lighting a long, narrow pipe with a smoldering branch from the extinguished fire.

“The raven has returned with the missing piece of your soul and is among us now. I will now breathe in what has been retrieved, and as I exhale, you will receive what is yours.”

Robert placed his lips on the narrow shaft of the pipe and inhaled fully, deep into his lungs. He gently put the pipe down on the ground with both hands and then cupped them in the same way Cheryl had done in my dreams. He closed his eyes and blew the smoke out of his mouth, through his cupped hands, and onto my chest. At precisely the same moment, the wind blew through the untied canvas panels at the top of the tipi and filled the air with the sound of flapping wings.

“Welcome your soul back to you. Let it know how glad you are to have it again, and promise you will take good care of it and will never let it go.”

I tried my best to follow his instructions, but all I could do was cry.

“You gave Cheryl a piece of your soul, which you believed was the ultimate gift, but nobody can use your soul other than you yourself.”

My reintegrated soul was swirling inside, and I could actually feel the new part of me that had returned like an old friend. It was tender and felt exposed to the elements when I moved. Gradually my vision began to blur, and I felt as if I were falling deep into the earth while losing my grasp on consciousness.

“Close your eyes,” Robert said kindly. “It’s time for you to rest.”

I followed his advice . . . and surrendered to a deep, deep sleep.

I emerged from the tipi and called out to my friends, but they were obviously long gone. After the muted light inside of the tipi, the sun nearly blinded me when I was outside. The light seemed to scream at me, and I covered my eyes for a few seconds until they adjusted. When I was able to focus, all of the colors seemed much brighter and all the sounds were much louder. It was as if the volume on everything was turned up, and I could see and hear clearly for the first time in my life. I spun around in place and was taken by the beauty of the valley I was in. The dried grasses became beautiful golden strands bending in the breeze, and the mountains were proud protectors of the valley below. It was as if I were seeing pure beauty for the first time in my life, and it was alive. The energy of beauty emanated from every living thing around me, and I was in awe.

I entered the tipi one last time to gather my overshirt and make sure I hadn’t left anything behind, and then followed the lightly worn path across the grassy fields toward town. When I first saw houses, mailboxes, and cars again, it was a shock—I was surprised by how quickly I’d become used to being surrounded by nothing but nature.

As I walked toward town, I reflected on what had happened the day before and traced the edges of the hole I had felt in my soul. I was pleased to discover that it was mostly filled in. The piece of me that had previously been dead was now very much alive and adjusting to the outside world, but was still quite sensitive and fragile.

I hadn’t had anything to eat since the previous morning and decided to stop by my favorite sandwich place once I arrived back in town. When I entered the restaurant, the contrast to the outdoors was quite dramatic—not only in the lighting and the smells, but in the feeling. When I was outside, it felt light and airy; but once inside, I felt a muddled energy that weighed on my heart. It also didn’t help that every square inch of the walls was covered floor to ceiling with framed black-and-white photos and wicker-basket sculptures of everything from farm animals to airplanes. The cluttered wall coverings made me feel claustrophobic compared to the simple canvas walls of the tipi, and I probably would have left if I hadn’t been so hungry.

I found an available table at the front of the restaurant and placed my order with the short, tattooed waitress with a raspy voice. She wore her dyed red hair in a makeshift bun, and her clumpy mascara implied a late night out that she still hadn’t recovered from. While I was waiting for the food to arrive, I could feel a huge dark cloud coming from the back kitchen that slowly began to fill the entire restaurant. And as I was sitting on the black vinyl seat, I discovered that I could feel the emotions of each person there simply by being open to them. It was as if everyone’s true feelings flowed to me like the ocean tides, and as the waves broke, I could sense their emotions as if they were my own. And although it was entertaining at first, most people in the restaurant weren’t very happy, so I tried to ignore everyone as best I could.

When my food finally arrived, I was surprised to discover that there was also energy emanating from the sandwich on the plate. It was nearly identical to the dark cloud I felt coming from the back kitchen, and I became quite agitated when I picked the sandwich up. I wasn’t sure what was happening to me, but I knew that I was hungry and had to eat. I decided to put the sandwich down, and bit into one of the cut carrots garnishing the plate. They were still fresh, and I could feel the life force entwine with mine as I chewed, swallowed, and felt it make its way down my throat. The pieces of carrot were definitely satisfying, but unfortunately there were only three. All that was left after I ate them was the turkey-and-Swiss I had ordered, and when I picked it up, I again felt the dark energy begin to agitate me. The sandwich looked great, but when I bit into it, I almost choked. I felt as if I’d consumed someone else’s anger with that first bite, and it was toxic to me.

I couldn’t help myself from spitting the mouthful onto the plate, and I rubbed my eyes while trying to figure out what was happening to me. My stomach was threatening to empty, and my head was swirling as if I were going to pass out. I pushed the plate to the opposite end of the table, which helped a bit, but I was still quite dizzy. I had completely lost my appetite and didn’t want to remain there any longer. And as I looked around the restaurant, I could sense that the energy from all the patrons was becoming even darker than it had been before. It was as if they’d all come there to consume the chef’s anger and were filling themselves up with it, whether they wanted to or not.

I clumsily tossed some crumpled bills on the table and quickly left the restaurant. Outside, I gradually felt much better as the wave of nausea began to dissipate in the fresh air. Something about the soul retrieval had made me ultrasensitive to other people’s energy, and I was surprised by how profound the sensitivity was. I was also genuinely upset about the horrible experience I’d had in the restaurant. Letting the chef transfer his bad energy into the food of others was inexcusable. According to the sign on the door, the restaurant prided itself on using only the freshest organic ingredients, but the food was completely ruined by the chef’s mood.

I decided to take it easy and relax for the rest of the day. I made my way to the entrance of Lithia Park and strolled through the initial lawn adjacent to downtown. I’d been there a few times before, but it was like I was seeing everything for the first time. Throughout the park, exotic plants were labeled with brass name tags, and the paths were groomed with a luxurious layer of wood chips that felt soft to the feet. And the babbling creek flowed through the park, carrying its soothing sounds over the pebbled banks.

The park was unusually tranquil, and I spent the rest of the day exploring—lazing in different corners, determined to find the ideal spot. Just above the upper duck pond I finally found a warm patch of grass by the creek that seemed to have my name on it. Lying down on nature’s green blanket, I felt a gentle breeze caress my face while I listened to the peaceful water sounds of the creek flowing nearby. For the first time since my childhood, I fell asleep under the clouds and drifted in and out of consciousness for what seemed to be hours. I was still deeply saddened by the memory of Cheryl, but the natural beauty of the park was rejuvenating, and I felt purified as the afternoon progressed.

As the sun went down, I made my way back to the Co-op to pick up some prepared brown rice to satisfy my returning hunger before I made my way home. I was disappointed that Robert and Puppy Don weren’t there, and I began to feel abandoned by them. After such an intense experience, I felt that I really needed to talk to somebody who understood what I was going through, and wondered why Robert had left without even saying goodbye. And the more I thought about it, the more angry I became. He was directly responsible for everything I was going through, and I felt like he had deserted me without any explanation.

Perhaps I was feeling overemotional, but I was still angry at him when I finally made it back to my apartment. After drinking several tall glasses of water and eating a few bites of brown rice, I crawled into my soft bed and cocooned myself tightly within my blankets so that I couldn’t see or feel anything else from the outside world.

“Scott?” she asked.

“Uh-huh,” I replied while still rubbing the sleep from my eyes.

“Hi, I’m Martika. Robert told me you had some very intense work done, and you brought back a pretty significant piece of your soul.”

“You know Robert?”

She nodded.

“Where is he?” My anger began to return. “He just left me without even saying goodbye.”

“How did you know where to find me?” I was starting to wake up, and I began to get a strange feeling about what was happening. “I never told Robert where I lived.”

“It’s a small town,” she laughed. “Everyone knows everyone’s business—you will soon enough. My friend Leslie rented this apartment to you. She told me about you when you first came to town. My daughter also used to live here. It has a lovely view from the bedroom, don’t you think?”

I nodded as I remembered Leslie the landlord with her silver SUV. Thinking back, I remembered she did seem to be awfully chatty about the neighbors, and I made a mental note to be extra careful about what I said in this town.

“Can I come in?” Martika asked.

“Oh yes, sorry. I’m kind of out of it at the moment.”

“No problem,” she said as I shut the door behind her. After we sat down on my brown and black sectional, she appeared to gradually come into focus, although her lips didn’t seem to move very much when she spoke.

“How does your soul feel?” she asked in a concerned voice after arranging a large pillow to support her back.

That was a good question. I finally said, “It feels tender.”

I nodded.

“And how is your mood?” she continued.

I felt as if I’d been crying for days, and I was still quite melancholy. I had never let myself grieve for the death of Cheryl, and years of sorrow were hitting me all at once. “I’m very sad,” I said after a long pause.

“That’s because you lost someone very dear to you, and you weren’t able to process your grief because your soul was in shock when you lost her. Robert and I both think it’s going to be very difficult for you to deal with this on your own, and we believe you need a support group to help you.”

“It’s not what you think,” Martika continued. “You’ve cut yourself off from your ancestors, and they are willing to help you through all this. But you need to get in touch with them, and the easiest way is with a constellation.”

“What’s that?”

“A constellation allows you to reach out to your family soul, which gives you the power to live your daily life with the support of your ancestors. You have recently reclaimed your personal soul, but it carries too much weight for you to shoulder on your own. That’s why you couldn’t handle the death of Cheryl. Every one of us has access to our family soul, which is like an unconditional support system.”

“Come on, Scott—it’ll be good for you. There’s a constellation starting in an hour, and I think you should go.”

I really didn’t want to go anywhere, but I didn’t have the energy to protest. I was still a little shaky, so Martika helped me down the weathered wooden steps and into her white Subaru station wagon. It was the first time I’d been in a car since mine had died, and it felt unusually confining.

We followed the main road to the southernmost edge of town and veered away from Dead Indian Memorial toward Mount Ashland. When we were nearly to the town limits, we turned off the main road and drove through a neighborhood filled with manicured country estates. Acres of white picket fences contained fields of livestock, including horses, sheep, llamas, and goats. After about a mile and a half, Martika pulled into a pea-graveled driveway between two imposing red barnlike buildings that marked the entry to a large country-style compound. We slowly drove up the circular driveway and parked near a small white round building with a wood-shingle roof that was partially shaded by a pair of majestic oaks.

“Here we are,” said Martika. “Stay in the car for a moment and I’ll get everything ready for you.”

There were several people milling about the smaller building, and I again became acutely aware of the stench of smoke on my clothes. I was so tired from the previous night that I still hadn’t taken a shower since I’d spent the night in the tipi. And in my groggy state, I had put on the same clothes I’d been wearing the day before. I began to feel very uncomfortable and wondered if there was time to clean up before the constellation began.

Martika appeared a couple of minutes later and said, “They’re ready for you. Come on, let’s go in.”

At that instant, I was inexplicably terrified of the constellation session. “Maybe today isn’t the right day for me.” I tried to think of a good excuse to leave.

“It’ll be okay—I’ll be with you the whole time. There’s nothing to be worried about.”

Although I had just met Martika, I wanted to believe her because she seemed genuinely filled with love and kindness. I was still feeling ultra-emotional from the soul retrieval, and I didn’t really want to be alone. It was nice to be cared for again after so many years.

“Come on,” she said and led me by the hand into the small building.

The interior was both elegant and dramatic. It had a round, open floor plan, with a huge fireplace and knotted-wood panels on the ceiling, which featured a brightly painted Native American crosslike symbol carved into its peak. Resting on the dark honey wood floor were several boxes of tissue, and chairs were arranged in a circle around the perimeter of the room. About fifteen women and two men were seated in the chairs, all wearing pale blue and white H
ELLO
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AME
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tags. The treefiltered light found its way in through the windows, and the room had the comforting aroma of fresh sawdust and orange blossom.

“This is Scott,” announced Martika. “He just had some very intense soul-retrieval work done, and he needs our help.”

“Hi, Scott,” the group said in unison, and I instantly felt more awkward than I had since high school.

“And this is Hans.” Martika gestured to a tall man with shoulder-length gray hair. “He’ll be facilitating the constellation today.

“Let’s start with Scott,” said Hans. “Please sit here next to me.”

I tentatively sat down next to him while Martika’s mouth shaped a smile as if to say that it would all be okay.

Everyone followed his instructions, and the room filled with the windlike sound of breath.

After a few minutes, Hans spoke directly to me: “What’s on your heart today, Scott?”

I looked around and everyone’s eyes were fixed on me. I didn’t know what to say but finally uttered a single word: “Sadness.”

“And why are you sad?”

“Because my fiancée was killed. And I feel alone.”

“Uh-huh. What was your fiancée’s name?”

“Cheryl.”

“And how did she die?”

“She was killed by a drunk driver.”

There were immediately sounds of pity that filled the room—sounds I was very familiar with, and the main reason I didn’t usually talk about what happened to Cheryl.

“Okay, Scott, who in this room feels right to represent you?”

I didn’t understand what he was asking. “Um, me, I guess . . .”

The room echoed with laughter, and I eyed the door to see if I could make a quick exit without anyone noticing.

I didn’t understand everything he was saying, but I did realize that I was supposed to pick someone else to represent me during this exercise, whatever it was. I stood up and saw that there was only one other man in the group besides Hans. He had a black biker mustache and a large silver belt buckle. Definitely not someone I could relate to.

“It doesn’t have to be a man.” Hans seemed to read my mind. “Just pick someone who feels right.”

I scanned the room and was immediately drawn to a girl in her midtwenties with short black hair, Goth makeup, and black clothes who was trying to avert her eyes so I wouldn’t notice her. As I looked around, everyone else smudged together in a blur of color, while she remained in focus.

I slowly raised my hand and pointed while whispering to Hans, “Her.”

“Lori, can you stand please?” he commanded.

“I’m representing Scott,” Lori said as she walked into the circle.

“Good. Now who will represent Cheryl?”

I looked to the name tags, hoping I could find someone with a similar name to make it easier. The tags jumbled in a sea of letters, and I found myself overwhelmed and trembling. My legs nearly buckled under the weight of my torso, and I decided to sit down before it was too late.

“It’s okay,” said Hans. “Just pick the first person who feels right.”

“Martika,” I finally blurted out, hoping that she was still in the room. She was behind me arranging the buffet and walked toward Lori.

“I’m representing Cheryl,” said Martika as she entered the circle.

“Very good,” said Hans. “Let me help you with the rest. I would like to bring your grandfathers in to help. Are you okay with that?”

All of my grandfathers and great-grandfathers had passed away many years before. I had been closest with my grandfather on my mother’s side, but I’d only seen him once every few years before his death. The others I hadn’t really known very well. I didn’t have much of an opinion one way or the other, and I heard myself say out loud, “Sure, if you think it would help.” As I looked around, I could see a combination of sadness and compassion in nearly everyone’s eyes as I spoke.

Hans continued with the determined precision of a cheetah stalking his prey: “Allie, you represent Scott’s grandfather on his mother’s side. Diana, you represent Scott’s grandfather on his father’s side. Shelley, you represent Scott’s great-grandfather on his father’s mother’s side. Scott, what country is your great-grandfather from?”

“I thought so. That makes a lot of sense. Devora, you represent the Cherokee nation. Hmm . . . that seems okay, but something’s not in balance.”

Hans tilted his head back and began to walk around in circles. From my vantage point, I couldn’t see his face clearly, but it looked like his eyes rolled back into his head as he traced a figure-eight pattern with his large feet. This went on for several minutes, and I could tell that I wasn’t the only one who was uncomfortable, as I began to see people shifting in their seats while waiting for him to finish.

Abruptly Hans stopped, and his eyes returned to center. He spoke with a commanding resonance that filled the entire room. “James,” his voice echoed, “you represent the drunk driver who killed Cheryl.”

Hans spoke up a bit louder: “Did the drunk driver survive?”

For some reason that took the edge off a bit. “No, he died also.”

“We’ll deal with that soon enough,” Hans continued, “but now I want you to gently guide each of the helpers within the field to where they feel most natural. Just breathe into your heart and let the field guide you.”

After taking a moment to recover, I deliberately walked over to Martika, and as I gently put my hands on the back of her shoulders, a tingly sensation flowed from her body, through my hands, up my arms, and down my spine. I let myself lean close enough to breathe in the scent of her hair and was immediately transported to the first time I’d met Cheryl. Martika became Cheryl with every passing moment—in her smell, her posture, and her aura. Within seconds, all of Martika’s features were erased and only Cheryl remained.