In shock, I knelt slowly down next to him and stroked her silver hair. My eyes filled with tears. “I wanted to thank you, Mama Chia,” I said. “I wanted to say good—”
We jumped back in surprise as Mama Chia sat up quickly and yelled, “Can’t a woman take a nap under the stars anymore?”
Fuji and I looked at each other, delighted. “We thought you—you—” I stammered.
“I was checking your pulse—” Fuji fared no better.
Then she realized what we had assumed. “You thought I’d kicked the bucket, did you? Well, don’t worry, I was just practicing. I want to get it right. We may have to rehearse every day until you two can stop acting like bumbling fools,” she said, laughing.
A delighted Fuji excused himself; dinner was waiting. But before he left, he stopped to give me some good advice. “Dan, about those boys in town—”
“Yes?” I asked.
“Sometimes, the best way to win a fight is to lose it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Think about it,” he said, then he turned and headed home for Mitsu’s vegetarian stew.
THAT NIGHT, in Mama Chia’s living room, she and I toasted each other’s health with several glasses of sake. My system was so clean from the exercise and simple diet that the sake’s effect was devastating—which is to say I got even more maudlin than usual. With moist eyes, I swore everlasting devotion to Mama Chia, and said good-bye to her “forever, just in case.” She patted my hand indulgently, smiled, and remained silent.
At some point, I must have fallen asleep on the floor, because that’s where I found myself the next morning, my ears ringing like the bells of Notre Dame. I wanted desperately to distance myself from my throbbing head, but there was nowhere to run.
Mama Chia got up looking obnoxiously chipper and made me one of her “special remedies—worse than death itself.”
“Speaking of death,” I said, each word sending stabbing pains through me, “I don’t think you’re the one who’s going to die soon—it’s me, I can tell—and I hope it’s real soon,” I added, rolling my eyes. “Oh, I feel sick.”
“Stop rolling your eyes,” she suggested. “That will help.”
“Thanks. I didn’t know I was rolling them.”
An hour later, I felt much better, much clearer, and with that clarity came a new wave of concern.
“You know, you really scared me last night. I just stood there. I felt helpless—like there was nothing I could do.”
Mama Chia sat on a cushion on the floor and looked at me. “Let’s get this straight once and for all, Dan. There is nothing you’re supposed to do. If you want peace of mind, I suggest you resign as general manager of the universe.
“I’m telling you, Dan, it’s homestretch for me—whatever you do or don’t do. Maybe tomorrow, maybe a few months—but soon. I’m packed and ready to go,” she said, putting her feet on the edge of the couch and gazing up at the ceiling.
“Mama Chia,” I confessed, “when I first came here, I believed I needed you only to tell me where to go next.”
She smiled at this.
“But now, I don’t know what I could learn that you and Socrates haven’t already taught me.”
She looked at me. “There’s always more to learn; one thing prepares you for the next.”
“That place in Asia—where you met Socrates—is that where I’m to go next?”
She offered no response.
“What is it—don’t you trust me enough to tell me?”
“These are all fair questions, Dan, and I understand how you feel. But I can’t simply hand you a name and address.”
“Why not?”
Mama Chia took a breath as she considered how to respond. “Call it the House Rules,” she said. “Or call it a safety device, an initiation. Only those sensitive enough, open enough, are meant to find it.”
“Socrates was about as helpful as you in terms of specifics. He told me that if I couldn’t find my way to you, I wasn’t ready.”
“So you understand.”
“Yes, but that doesn’t mean I like it.”
“Like it or not, there’s a bigger picture here,” she reminded me. “And more people are involved than just you and me and Socrates. We are only a few interwoven threads in a larger quilt. And there are mysteries I don’t even try to fathom; I just enjoy them.”
“Socrates once gave me a business card,” I told her. “It’s at home for safekeeping. Below his name, it says, ‘Paradox, Humor, and Change.’”
Smiling, Mama Chia said, “That’s life, all right. Socrates always did have a way of cutting to the heart of things.” Then she touched my arm, and said, “So you see, it’s not a matter of whether or not I trust you, Dan. It’s more a matter of you trusting yourself.”
“I’m not sure what you mean.”
“Then trust that, too.”
“But I remember Socrates saying you would show me the way.”
“Yes, show you the way—not send you a telegram. To find the hidden schools, you have to discover the Inner Records. The House Rules don’t permit me to tell you directly; I can only train you to see, to help prepare you. The map is inside.”
“Inside? Where?”
“The hidden schools are often in the middle of a city, or in a small village—maybe right next door to where you live—not invisible at all. But most people walk right past—too busy visiting the caves in Nepal and Tibet, searching where they expect to find holiness. Until we warriors explore the caves and shadow places within our own minds, we see only our own reflections—and the masters sound like fools, because only fools are listening.
“Now,” she continued, “is the time when the invisible becomes visible again, and angels take wing. You are one of these. It has been my duty, my happy duty, to help you along. Like Socrates, I’m a cheerleader to the soul,” she said. “We’re here to support you, not make it easy for you.
“You have to find the path ahead, as you found me. All I can do is point in the right direction, push you onward, and wish you Godspeed.”
She saw my expression. “Relax your brows, Dan. And stop trying to figure everything out. You don’t have to know everything about the ocean to swim in it.”
“Do you think I’m ready to move on?”
“No, not yet. If you left now—” She left the sentence unfinished, and changed course. “You’re almost there—maybe an hour from now, or a few years. I hope to remain here long enough to see you—”
“Make the leap,” I finished for her.
“Yes. Because, as I’ve said, after the fourth floor, it’s an express elevator.”
“I’d make the leap today, right now, if I knew how,” I said, frustrated. “I’d do anything for you; just tell me what to do.”
“I wish it were that simple—to just tell you. But change has to come from inside you—like a flower from its seed—you can’t rush it. We don’t control the timetable.
“In the meantime, just do what feels right; deal with whatever stands in front of you. Use everything to grow, to uplift. Take care of any unfinished business on the lower floors. Face your fears; do whatever you have to do to maximize your health and energy. Channel and discipline that energy; you have to master yourself before you can go beyond that self.”
She paused, and took another deep breath before saying, “I’ve shown you what you need to know. It will help you, or not, depending on what you do with it.”
Heavyhearted, I stared at the floor, and said in a hushed tone, almost to myself, “I keep losing teachers. First Socrates sends me away, and now you tell me you’ll be leaving soon.”
“You don’t ever want to get too attached to any one teacher,” she said. “Don’t mistake the wrapping for the gift. Do you understand?”
“I think I do,” I replied. “It means I have another wild-goose chase in store—looking for someone without a face in a place with no name.”
She smiled. “When the student is ready, the teacher appears.”
“I’ve heard that one before,” I said.
“But do you really understand? That statement really means ‘When the student is ready, the teacher appears—everywhere’: in the sky, in the trees, in taxicabs and banks, in therapists’ offices and service stations, in your friends and in your enemies. We’re all teachers for one another. There are teachers in every neighborhood, in every city, state, and country—teachers for every level of consciousness. As in every field, some are more skilled or aware than others. But it doesn’t matter. Because everything is an oracle; it’s all connected; every piece mirrors the Whole, when you have eyes to see, and ears to hear. This may sound abstract to you now, but one day—and that day may not be too far away—you will absolutely understand it. And when you do,” she said, picking up a shiny stone, “you’ll be able to gaze into this stone, or examine the veins on this leaf, or watch a paper cup blowing in the wind, and you’ll understand the hidden principles of the universe.”
After pondering this, I asked, “Is there something wrong with human teachers?”
“Of course there is! Because every teacher in a human body is going to have some kind of imbalance, eccentricity, or weakness. Maybe the problems are big, and maybe little. Maybe it’s sex or food or power—or worse, the teacher may go and die on you.” She paused here, for effect.
“But for most people,” she continued, “a human teacher is the best game in town—a living example, a mirror. It’s easier to understand a human’s writing or speaking than the language of the clouds or cats or a shaft of lightning in a purple sky.
“Humans, too, have their wisdom to share, but human teachers come and go; once you open the Inner Records, you see it all directly, from the inside, and the Universal Teacher appears.”
“What can I do now to prepare myself?” I asked.
Mama Chia paused, grew very quiet, and stared at nothing. Then she turned to me. “I’ve done what I can to help you prepare.”
“Prepare for what?” I asked.
“For what’s to come.”
“I’ve never liked riddles.”
“Maybe that’s why life has given you so many.” She smiled.
“How do I know I’m ready?”
“You could know by faith,” she said. “But your faith in yourself isn’t strong enough. So you need a challenge—a test—to mirror and prove what you have, or haven’t, yet learned.”
Mama Chia stood, and began pacing across the room, then gazing out the window, then pacing some more. Finally, she stopped, and said to me, “There is a treasure on this island—well hidden from unprepared eyes. I want you to find it. If you do, then you’re ready to leave, and go on with my blessings. If not—” She didn’t complete the sentence except to say, “Meet me at sunset, tonight, in the forest; I’ll explain everything to you then.”
Redbird landed on the windowsill outside. Watching him, I said, “I’ll be there. Where exactly shall we meet?” When I looked up, she was gone. “Mama Chia?” I called. “Mama Chia?” No answer. I searched the house and out in back, but I knew I wouldn’t find her, until sunset. But where? And how? That, I sensed, was to be my first task.
I RESTED MOST OF THE AFTERNOON—no telling what I’d have to do after the sun went down. I lay on my bed, too excited to sleep. A part of me kept sorting through the files of everything I’d learned about the three selves and the seven floors of the tower of life; images and feelings kept floating by.
I couldn’t even remember how the world looked before I met Mama Chia. I wondered how I saw anything at all. But visions were one thing; real-world tests were another. What did she have in store?
I thought of all the likely, and unlikely, places she would wait, but I soon concluded that trying to figure it out would be fruitless.
Then I thought, Basic Selves are in contact, so my Basic Self should know where hers is. I only had to pay attention to its messages through my intuitive sense, my gut feelings. I could home in on her like a Geiger counter! Now I knew how—but could I actually do it?
I knew I’d have to relax my body and clear my Conscious Self in order to sense the messages from my Basic Self. So, in the late afternoon, I found a mound of dirt at the edge of the forest and sat in meditation. Letting my breath rise and fall of its own accord, I let my thoughts, sensations, and emotions rise and fall like waves on the sea. Unperturbed by the currents of the mind, I watched them come, and let them go, without clinging or attachment.
Just before sunset, I rose, stretched, took a few deep breaths, breathing out any tension, concern, or anxiety that might interfere—and strode to the center of the clearing. Stay confident, I reminded myself. Trust the Basic Self; it knows.
First I tried to visualize where she was. I relaxed, and waited for an image. Her face appeared, but it felt like a picture I had constructed from memory, and I couldn’t really see her surroundings. Then I listened with my inner ears for some kind of clue, maybe even her voice. But that didn’t work either.
As a trained athlete, I had developed a refined kinesthetic sense, acutely aware of my body. So I used this sense, turning slowly in a circle, feeling for a direction. Then my mind intervened: She’ll probably be sitting right on her front porch. No, she’ll be at the frog pond. Maybe she’s in the forest near Joseph and Sarah’s, or Fuji and Mitsu’s. Or she’ll sneak into my cabin and wait for me to give up. Suddenly aware of what I was doing, I threw all that away. This was no time for logic or reason.
Feel it! I told myself. I silently asked my Basic Self to tell me. I waited, still turning slowly. Nothing, and then, “Yes!” In my excitement, I had shouted out loud. I pointed my arm, or it pointed itself—I don’t know for certain—and felt an inner confirmation, like gut feelings I’d had in the past, only stronger. My Conscious Self jumped in with all kinds of doubts: This is silly—just your imagination. You can’t know this, you’re making it up.
Ignoring my thoughts, I followed my arm, up at an angle, to the left of the path toward the ridge. I started walking, and the feeling remained strong. I headed deeper into the forest, off the path, and stopped. I turned, feeling like a blind man, relying on new inner senses. She felt closer; then doubts assaulted me once again.
But the feeling was stronger than my doubts, and it told me she was near. I turned once again in a circle, stopped, and walked forward. Right into a tree. As I touched the tree, it said in a loud voice, “That was too easy; next time, I’ll make you wear a blindfold.”
“Mama Chia!” I cried, thrilled, stepping around the tree to see her sitting there. “I did it. It worked!” I was jumping up and down. “I didn’t know where you were; I couldn’t have known. But I found you.”
This proved to me that there is more to this world, more to human beings, and more to me, than meets the eye. Actually trusting my Basic Self, and seeing how the Conscious Self could get in the way, brought all the concepts I had learned into focus, and into reality. “This is incredible!” I said. “What a magical world!”
With a considerable but gallant effort, I helped her to her feet and reached around her in a bear hug. “Thank you! That was really fun.”
“Like any child, the Basic Self loves to have fun,” she said. “That’s why you feel so much energy.”
I soon calmed, however, and told her, “I’ll find this treasure, whatever it is, if that’s the challenge you have for me. But I don’t really have to look anywhere else; you’re the treasure. I want to stay here, with you, as long as I can.”
“Dan,” she said, taking me gently by the shoulders, “this tells me you’re close to making the leap, so very close. But I’m not the one you’re here to serve. I’m just a way station. Remember me with gratitude, if you will. But not for me—for you—because gratitude opens the heart.” In the last pink light of the sunset, her face looked beatific as she smiled at me, mirroring back all the love I felt for her.
“And now,” she said, “the time has come for you to begin.” She sat down once again, took her notepad and a pen out of her pack,
and closed her eyes. As I watched her, she just sat and breathed, waiting. Then she began to write in her trembling hand—slowly at first, then faster. When she finished, she handed the note to me. It read:
Over water, under sea,
in the forest high you’ll be.
Trust your instinct, in the sea;
bring the treasure home to me.
If you find it, as you might,
you will travel, day and night.
As you see it, you will know,
as above, then so below.
Once you grasp it, you will be
ready then to cross the sea.
I read the note a second time. “What does it mean?” I asked, looking up. She had disappeared again. “Damn it! How do you do that?” I yelled into the forest. Then, with a sigh, I sat down and wondered what to do next.